As A God
by StormsInNeverland
Summary: 18 years ago Burt's girlfriend disappeared. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, but then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old was admitted to hospital for a drug overdose carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? Maybe.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: As A God**

**Summary: 18 years ago, Burt Hummel's girlfriend disappeared. He spent months desperately searching, but eventually he had to accept Kathy was gone. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, Finn, and even Finn's best friend. But then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old admitted to hospital for a drug overdose and carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? There's only one way to find out.**

**Warnings: Right, this is a long one. Violence, substance abuse, sexual violence, prostitution (including underage), swearing, 'phobic slander, angsty goodness, self harm, suicidal thoughts (possibly acts)…yeah, this will be quite dark at times, at least, the themes will be.**

**This is written by me (Sally), but Kyle will be joining me as co-author. Once he's home from a night out with the lads, and has sobered up. I'd like to thank Lilybean, and _me and Mr. Jones_ for their friendship and support while I'm stuck at home on my own, with alcohol, Brothers & Sisters, and my notebook for company :)**

**I'm writing chapter one as you read this.**

**I have no idea how long this story will be. Maybe 5 chapters, maybe 50. Who knows? All I know is that _any scenes written totally in italics will be flashbacks_, and that I am really enjoying this tub of Ben & Jerry's ice cream right now. Reviews would make it taste even better, though. Apologies for any discrepancies, I'll fix them soon. I'm too tired to edit as well as I probably could…**

**-Stormy Sally xx**

(prologue)

_To you, your father should be __**as a god**__;  
>One that compos'd your beauties, yea, and one<br>To whom you are but as a form in wax  
>By him imprinted, and within his power<br>To leave the figure or disfigure it._  
><em><strong>A Midsummer Night's Dream<strong>_** (1.1.50-4)**

It was rare that Burt and Carole Hummel found a moment to themselves, what with a teenage son (_"stepson"_, Burt had always reminded people at first, but after a while they forgot about the first syllable) in the house. So when they did get a moment of peace in an empty house, they were sure to take advantage of the situation.

It was getting harder and harder to have an intimate night of undisturbed pleasure, especially with Noah Puckerman, a boy whose company Burt had learned to love over time, practically living with them as well, thanks to his own mother's struggles that bordered on negligence at times.

But now they had an entire night to themselves. Just Mr and Mrs Hummel. And their Queen-sized bed.

Burt's lips pressed softly against Carole's, hands tracing lightly up and down her sides over her silky red nightdress, which she'd worn especially for the occasion. Her smile glowed against his, and she sighed in contentment as she leaned back against her pillows.

The hem of her nightdress was past her thighs when the phone rang.

"Ignore it," Burt mumbled into her mouth, catching her giggle with his own commanding lips.

She groaned in dissatisfaction as she reluctantly pushed her husband away from her.

"Carole…" Burt grumbled over the hard ring of the phone.

"It might be Finn, sweetheart," Carole hushed with a guilty smile of apology. Her son would always come first, and Burt knew this. He felt the same, of course. And she'd been unhappy with Finn going to that house party in the first place, had even promised to come pick him up in the small hours of the morning if he called and asked her to. Of course she _liked _that Lopez girl, she liked all of her son's friends. She just didn't particularly trust the cheerleader all that much when it came to parties.

Burt rolled over to his own side of the bed, the light sweat of his anticipation cooling fast on his back against the mattress. He stared up at the speckled ceiling with unseeing eyes, waiting calmly.

_Ring riii-_ "Hello, this is Carole Hummel."

Carole hadn't turned on the bedside lamp, and Burt smiled softly into the darkness at the sound of her name, his name…_their _name. "Yes, he's-" Carole stumbled over her words. "He's right here."

Burt looked over to see Carole holding the phone towards him, a frown creasing deeply between her eyebrows. He threw her a quizzical look and her lips trembled around her reply.

"It's the - it's the police."

Burt bolted upright, snatching the phone with perhaps unnecessary force.

Had something happened to the garage?

Had one of the guys got into trouble?

"This is Burt Hummel," he said gruffly, fingers rubbing his eyes back into concentration. Thoughts of sex still lingered in the back of his mind as Carole's breaths filled the silence beside him, but they were dissipating fast.

"_Burt_?" a light, friendly voice filled with anxiety crackled through the line. "_It's Sergeant Murphy. Adam, remember_?"

Burt's words caught in his throat, sounding strangled as he spoke, and he coughed as he replied.

"Umm, yeah. Adam. I mean…Sergeant, yeah. I remember. Can I help you?" He just about managed to stop himself asking _What the hell do you want?_

He could hear Sergeant Murphy's breaths, deep and fast.

"_I know it's a closed case, but I just got a call from NYPD. It's about Kathy_."

He'd known it must have been. From the moment he heard the name _Murphy_ he knew. But for some reason, hearing it made it worse. And even stranger.

"What about her?"

"_Burt, I know you're married_," the man on the end of the line explained uneasily, discomfort humming in the undertone of his words. "_But both her parents are dead, and you…you were the only other person she really…she's got no other family for me to call_."

Burt could feel Carole's eyes on him, worried and confused. He was aware of her hand slipping into his, but he couldn't bring himself to squeeze back.

He couldn't so much as look at his wife; not while talking on the phone to the police officer who had led the search for his old girlfriend, who had been missing for eighteen years. It was too weird, even though Carole knew the entire story backwards, just as he knew all about her first husband.

"You mean they've found her?"

It seemed Carole had cottoned on, or at least guessed what they were talking about. Her fingers tightened around his and her thumb brushed her knuckles absently.

"_Not exactly_," Murphy said after a confusing pause, sounding awkward. "_You remember the picture you gave us? The one that was also in her purse when she left_?"

Of course he did. It was their last Christmas together before she ran away; a picture of a twenty year old Burt Hummel and nineteen year old Katherine Gibson, curled close and happy on a festively decorated sofa. Burt reminded the officer of this with a low growl that sounded far more impatient than he intended it to.

"_Well, you said about her always being a fan of New York, if you remember. And if you recall, we sent NYPD a copy of that photo along with the facts of the case, in the off chance she turned up there. And, well_."

Here Murphy stopped. He'd always been professional when it came to his job. Now he was stuttering like a schoolboy.

"_Burt, can you come in to the station? This is quite_-"

"God dammit, Murphy! What's going on?" Burt snapped irritably. The mattress shivered as Carole flinched, and Burt sent her an apologetic look, not letting his eyes find hers for fear of breaking down there and then.

"_I few of their guys did a raid of a…right just, the basics. They've been chasing a fat-cat drug dealer for a while. He's in it all balls deep. Drugs, prostitution, organised crime. You understand. Yesterday they did a raid, and in a room they found a group of people, pretty much all overdosed on a bad batch of some form of drugs. One of the teenagers there…he had the picture in his pocket, Burt."_

There was too much information to process. Burt's grip was a shaking vice around the phone, which creaked and threatened to break, just as Carole's fretting hand was on his. He felt like he knew what Murphy was trying to say, but a deeply buried survival instinct in his brain was stopping him from acknowledging the hidden truth within.

"So, you're saying…what're you saying, Sergeant?" Feeling guilty for his previous outburst, he spoke as politely as he could.

"_The kid's about seventeen at a reasonable guess, Burt. And he has that photo, with _Mom and Dad _written on the back_."

Denial held in his explosion of shock as it rippled through every muscles in Burt's body, gnawing at his intestines.

"_Burt, I know-_"

"Just give me a minute."

Carole's pleading eyes were filling with tears that bit and stung, and only then did Burt feel the trickling wetness over his cheeks, washing with tears.

"And Kathy?"

He surprised himself with the steadiness of his question, though his voice was thick and full of insecurity.

"_We don't know. We think…they reckon she's dead. I'm sorry, Burt._"

Burt squeezed his eyes and lips tightly shut for a few seconds, nodding and humming his understanding. Carole's arms had snaked around his waist in a protective hold close to her bosom. He loved Carole with all his heart. And inside he'd always thought of Kathy as the _late Kath Gibson_. This agony surprised him. This heartbroken ache in his bones, so strong he knew he'd probably have drowned in it without Carole there, an anchor that kept him rooted to his sanity.

"What's his name?"

He didn't mean for the question to ghost his lips. But it did.

Murphy sighed.

"_They don't know yet. They called pretty much as soon as they found the picture. And I called you as soon as I could. He won't really have been in the hospital all that long, yet._"

Burt was numb. He had no idea what exactly he was supposed to be felling other than pain. He couldn't even find confusion. Just love and hurt. And _god _did it hurt…

"What do I…what should I do?"

A genuine question, because he had no idea. No idea whatsoever. He wasn't even sure he could get out of the bed without instructions.

Murphy's exhalation was irritatingly loud and frustratingly long.

"_Go to New York. Find the kid. And find out for sure whether or not he's yours._"

Blunt and honest as ever. Burt winced.

That was it?

Just casually hop on a plane to New York City to visit a seventeen year old drug addict that may or may not be his biological son, whim he had no idea existed until a few minutes ago.

No biggie.

"_They're expecting you within three days,_" Murphy apologised. "_I can call and reschedule, though, if you can't make it. They'll sort out-_"

"NO!" Burt accidently bellowed. He felt Carole flinch even more violently than before, and he heard Murphy jump, startled by the eager aggression in the shout. "Sorry. I mean, no. I'll go. I'm going."

"_Come to the station tomorrow morning, Burt. I'll fill you in properly, then you can go. Ok?_"

Burt swallowed air dryly.

"Yeah. Ok. Good."

It wasn't good at all. Not in the slightest. Nothing about the situation was good. No information. No understanding. No nothing. Just a mess.

A mess that Burt could already feel wrapping around him like throttling vines; around his lungs and his throat and his stomach.

"_Until tomorrow, then_," Murphy said gently.

Sympathy. Pity.

Burt cringed with delicate disgust.

"Tomorrow, Sergeant."

There was a brief pause of silent awkwardness as Burt held back his questions and Adam Murphy held back his patronising consolation. And then off they clicked in unison.

_Bzzzzzz._

The phone fell a dead weight into Burt's lap, his arms going limp. He let Carole wrap herself around him, this time in pure love, not a hint of the lust that had enveloped them before that fateful ring of the phone.

She didn't ask, but he answered nonetheless.

"I have a son."

It was alien to his bitter tongue, coppery like blood.

Carole froze in her soothing, her desperation to ask more burning in white hot waves that encircled them both.

"At least, I'm pretty sure he's mine. Right timing. She must have been pregnant when she left."

He wasn't sure how his voice sounded to his wife, but in his head his words were monotonous. He was drained. He was sure he should have been shouting, screaming, _something_.

But he wasn't.

He was drained.

And Carole's tears were dripping a path onto Burt's face, showering him with empathetic adoration and support.

"What are we going to do?"

Burt choked on his breath, and choked on his love for his wife.

She was so strong. Burt felt a rush of affection for her, and he stroked the inside of her thigh with a mechanic's calloused finger. The intimacy was still very much there, but the passion that had burned between them before had fizzled away, leaving behind the overwhelming love that held their marriage together.

"I'm going to get him," Burt said, simply.

It was a matter of fact. Like going to work six days a week. Like Friday night family dinners. Like Saturday date nights.

Easy.

"I'm going to bring him home."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: As A God**

**Summary: 18 years ago, Burt Hummel's girlfriend disappeared. He spent months desperately searching, but eventually he had to accept Kathy was gone. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, Finn, and even Finn's best friend. But then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old admitted to hospital for a drug overdose and carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? There's only one way to find out.**

**Warnings: Right, this is a long one. Violence, substance abuse, sexual violence, prostitution (including underage), swearing, 'phobic slander, angsty goodness, self harm, suicidal thoughts (possibly acts)…yeah, this will be quite dark at times, at least, the themes will be.**

**This is shorter than I intended, because there's a very silly boy with a very silly bump on his head who I have promised to go get take-away for as a treat. I decided on ending it where I do…because I'm mean, basically. I'm starting chapter two as you read this :) I promise we'll get somewhere plotwise soon :)**

**I have no idea how long this story will be. Maybe 5 chapters, maybe 50. Who knows? All I know is that _any scenes written totally in italics will be flashbacks_. Apologies for discrepancies, I'm in a rush to buy take-away before all the drunks are out on the streets. Finally, I disclaim the name _Dean Leroy Malone_ - I stole it from one of Kyle's stories because I always thought it was cool.**

**-Stormy Sally xx**

(chapter one)

_To you, your father should be __**as a god**__;  
>One that compos'd your beauties, yea, and one<br>To whom you are but as a form in wax  
>By him imprinted, and within his power<br>To leave the figure or disfigure it._  
><em><strong>A Midsummer Night's Dream<strong>_** (1.1.50-4)**

As a younger man, Burt had made a habit of complaining about being stuck in a deadbeat town like Lima. Now, however, he felt glad of his small-town lifestyle as his eyes followed the flashing, busy streets of New York's Saturday night glamour through the window of his taxi - bright yellow, feeling like a true cliché.

At his feet sat a bag stuffed full of spare clothes, along with a book, and photographs of himself, of Kathy, of Carole and Finn. The essentials, he figured.

There was even a photo of Finn and Puck playing video games on Finn's last birthday.

Burt drummed a rhythm into his jittery knees with fretful fingers, making involuntary noises of impatience every time he felt the car so much as slow down.

He wanted to get to the hospital, and yet it seemed the fates were against him on this one.

His head was filled with the lullaby of New York. Cars and laughter and shrieks. And the smatter of what felt like billions upon billions of feet treading every corner. Though they were slowly making progress, the hospital seemed to be getting only further and further away as time passed.

Somewhere inside this city was his son. His flesh and blood. His _boy_.

And this faceless, nameless _boy_ was a magnet calling out to him in New York's bustling silence.

And still they drew closer.

Taxi prices were obscene, but Burt had arrived in this city, a place so many rushed to with excitement and freedom in their fingertips, prepared to spare no expense if it meant getting there faster. Throwing a fistful of cash at the driver, he scrambled out of the seat, heaving his bag with him.

He fifty metres from the main entrance of the hospital…forty metres…twenty metres…five…two…

Never before had Burt Hummel _relished _the scent of sickly hospital cleanliness. He'd never appreciated the beauty of it quite so whole-heartedly.

The hospital was as packed as hospitals always are in the movies.

Unfortunately, unlike in the movies, there was no 'special nurse' who sneakily let him through to the police case patients without proof of ID or permission. He argued with a secretary for at least ten minutes before she finally agreed to fetch a police officer, for him to be assessed and, if necessary, escorted.

The summoned police officer was a stocky man of around thirty, with a light fuzz of red stubble on his jaw and shortly cropped hair of strawberry blond. He looked Burt up and down once in a sweeping roll of his eyes, and then smiled a surprisingly gracious smile for someone with such mean, cold eyes. He spoke with confidence, and an air of calm understanding.

"You're Burt Hummel, right?"

Shocked at being known without introductions to the policeman, Burt's words caught between his lips.

The officer smiled again, beady eyes glittering with hard delight.

"I've seen your picture. You haven't changed much, 'cept the hair." He gestured in a friendly manner to the head covered by a plain blue baseball cap. Despite his biting nerves, Burt smiled in return, comforted by the ease of the younger man's presence. "I'm Sergeant McDonnell," he introduced, shaking Burt's hand firmly. "Please, though, call me Justin."

"Justin," Burt repeated with a clarifying nod through tight lips.

"Right," Justin shrugged, clapping his hands together and interlocking his fingers. "Formalities aside, I suppose we'd better go up?"

Burt's replying nod was painfully fast, and unnecessary.

With a badge, it seemed Justin could have parted the very Red Sea as Moses. People swerved accommodatingly for him, and Burt followed in wonderment. This man was perfectly at ease with his authority, and also highly immersed in the case at hand, judging by the stern, diamond edge to his voice as he related what little information he could to Burt about the raid and capture of fat-cat Dean Leroy Malone.

Burt listened with intense interest, hoping for some hint that would reveal more about the boy whose presence was his reason for travelling so far in one day, with so little sleep the night before.

His courage plucked, he asked a tentative question once he found himself alone in an elevator with the uniformed man. "Were you…part of the raid?"

"I was," Justin replied immediately, knocking the floor number button with a single knuckle. "I was the one to find your kid. S'part of why I'm still keen to stay on the case for a while." His words were heartfelt, and yet spoken with the same analytical indifference with which he described the loose details of Malone's most recent drug dealings.

"He might not…be my kid," Burt finished lamely, looking dejected. Justin's eyes possibly softened for just an moment, but it may have simply been the warmth of the light in the confined space.

"They'll do a paternity test while you're here, don't worry."

Burt thought this through as the doors of the elevator pinged open, the patronising feminine voice informing them of their destination. They continued along a corridor that was as equally clean, bright, and signposted as the rest. The words Intensive Care Unit did not pass him by, but he was too distracted to fully acknowledge or question them.

Every step was eating at him. The anchoring presence of Sergeant Justin McDonnell should have steadied him, but instead it seemed his hands wouldn't stop shaking. This was real. This was happening.

In the excitement it seemed he'd forgotten that small detail.

Those two words rang like the ambulance sirens in A&E, loud and clear and cutting and grating.

Paternity test.

Paternity.

Fatherhood.

Father.

Dad.

This was real. This was happening.

This was his life.

Justin seemed to have found cause for concern in Burt's silence, because he placed a hand on the older man's arm, stopping them both at a corner with a questioning look.

"Burt? You ok?"

His searching gaze stained Burt's cheeks pink; he gripped his bag tighter, fiddling with the leather straps and shuffling his feet. He couldn't look into the calm face of the officer, so he focused on his own stubby fingernails instead.

The hospital was alive with activity, never resting, but they had pressed pause. Burt was beginning to feel overwhelmed.

"You got any kids, Justin?" he asked hesitantly. The Sergeant fingered the band of gold on his left ring finger.

"A little girl," he said fondly. "Mallorie. She's four."

Burt's shaky smile could not match Justin's sincerity, though he tried his best.

"I got a stepson," he admitted uneasily. "Been with his mom since he was twelve. Got two, now, counting his best friend. Damn punk stayed over one night and never left."

He was only half joking, but Justin let out a soft laugh; he waved away an approaching police officer, but Burt was frowning at his hands, and continued, oblivious.

"I never saw Finn grow up. I wasn't there when he was born. I didn't go to parenting classes while Carole was pregnant. I never prepared.

"But I knew what was coming as I dated her. I knew I wanted Carole and any family she brought with her. I made sure I was ready."

His eyes were aching.

His life had been turned upside down barely twenty-four hours ago, and he was suddenly aware of the constant drumming in his head. He remembered crying when Kathy left eighteen years ago.

He'd cried since, of course, but he knew that if he cried now, it wouldn't be like the crying at his wedding, looking deep into Carole Hudson's eyes filled with love as she vowed to evermore be Carole Hummel.

If he cried now it would be the torn, heartbroken sobs of twenty year old Burt Hummel, feeling lost and alone with Katherine Gibson by his side.

"But this time?" His voice was cracking, and he could feel Justin's fingers digging into his arm. "If he is my…my son?" He kept saying if. If, if, if. But he knew there was not if. Not really. "What am I supposed to do? He doesn't know me! I don't know him!" he cried, curling his toes in his shoes. "I'm not ready, this time."

It was true, he wasn't ready.

Justin's sigh that followed was quite obviously a sigh that was to precede an improvised, unsure speech of muddled comfort.

"You don't have to be. He won't be, either. and you have your wife. Carole, right? And your stepson…s," he added with a gentle smile. Burt snorted affectionately. He pictured his home in Lima. Carole would have told Puck and Finn by this time. At least, what little she _could _tell.

Their severely limited information was frustrating.

"Don't you…don't you know his name yet?"

It seemed so impossible. Still a faceless, nameless son.

Finally, he gathered the strength to look up from the frayed leather straps of his bag. He found Justin's eyes as cold as ever; the warm curve of his kind lips had dipped a little at the question.

Disappointment flooded through Burt, right the way to his numb fingers and toes.

"We know exactly three things about him for sure.

"He's been taking drugs for quite some time. He's been associated with Malone for at least ten years. And he's been in that bastard's employment for at least five of them."

There was something in the hard way Justin stated his three facts that made Burt's blood run cold.

"His…his employment?" Burt asked with no desire whatsoever to be answered.

"Let's talk," Justin glossed over solidly, pulling Burt down the corridor to an empty room with brisk authority.

No-one questioned them, and Burt took in the brief sight of an examination room, shining white surfaces and clean walls and drawers, before his attention returned solely to Sergeant McDonnell.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you everything, Burt. But the nature of this…situation," he gestured to Burt awkwardly, "means I can probably sidestep a few minor protocols where your son - _is concerned_," he finished with stern finality, speaking over Burt's '_he might not be_' firmly.

Burt closed his mouth obediently, nodding.

"I found your son in a room with two others of around the same age. One female, whose identity I can't reveal as she's currently still in this hospital being treated and under protection. The other was a male, who died in the ambulance, name of Anderson. Anderson was a rich runaway who we think spent most of his time in the company of the other two. Your son and girl, though. They were…in the business. Malone's business, I should say."

Burt's head was full of images of three dying teenagers shooting dirty needles into their veins, eyes red and skin green, money stuffed into their back pockets alongside bags of powder - white, like in the movies.

"Drugs?" he asked dubiously, recalling Justin's explanations.

Justin shook his head, looking nauseous.

"Sex," he explained with an audibly constricted throat.

Burt swallowed down his gag reflex with great difficulty. Justin elaborated, saving him the trouble of asking.

"They were street-walkers together, far as we can tell. They - the three of them - overdosed on a bad batch of cocaine. Luckily we found them fast enough to save two thirds of the group. Anderson took the most, from what we can gather. Normally not enough to outright kill, as far as the doctors say, but it was impure, which is what probably killed him.

"Since your son's been awake, he hasn't told us much, Burt. I don't know if you want to wait for a paternity test to see where you stand with this-"

"Or?" Burt asked before Justin could say. Despite a lack of religion, the prayer for another option repeated on a loop in his head.

"Or," Justin continued with an encouraging smile that, as ever, did not reach his eyes. "You can meet him now? Perhaps you can get to know him, out of any uniform. He might trust someone who isn't either trying to interrogate or heal him."

Burt's eyes swept around the room. The crinkly paper on the seat at the far side of the room. The identical drawers full of hidden utensils. The dark spilling through the window. The feeble artificial light of the bulb above their heads.

And Justin, one hand rubbing his red stubble the wrong way, the other tucked loosely into his belt.

"I can…meet him now?"

The eagerness was gone, replaced with a sudden terror that this really was happening _too fast_.

"He won't be up for a long visit," Justin insisted with widening eyes, though whether in reassurance or in warning Burt couldn't tell. "But he was just waking up when I left to fetch you. They've been having to put him to sleep. He's sleepy, but restless."

Burt nodded, nothing to say that did not risk letting out a wail of impatience and fear.

"Ok?" Justin checked, for the first time sounding truly unsure.

Burt nodded before he could pause to consider.

And once more time was against him.

Eager in the taxi, it had paused for hours between seconds. Now anxious, the seconds were in double time, and he could not keep up.

They were out of the waiting room. They were in the corridor. They were walking past a desk with the flash of a police badge. They were outside a room guarded by another officer.

The door was open.

Burt stepped over the threshold of the door and looked to the only occupied bed in a room built for four. The _beep beep beep _of a heart monitor pulsed through the air, louder than his footsteps, and those of the officer who followed him in. The room was full of the darkest light Burt had ever seen, blue and cold. An emptiness filled the atmosphere that rivalled the depths of the oceans only ever seen on discovery channels that people pretended they watched. The loneliness threatened to drown Burt.

And he looked at the figure in the far right bed, barely large enough to form bumps beneath the blankets.

His son.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: As A God**

**Summary: 18 years ago, Burt Hummel's girlfriend disappeared. He spent months desperately searching, but eventually he had to accept Kathy was gone. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, Finn, and even Finn's best friend. But then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old admitted to hospital for a drug overdose and carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? There's only one way to find out.**

**Warnings: Right, this is a long one. Violence, substance abuse, sexual violence, prostitution (including underage), swearing, 'phobic slander, angsty goodness, self harm, suicidal thoughts (possibly acts)…yeah, this will be quite dark at times, at least, the themes will be.**

**Hey guys! Thank you so much for your beautiful reviews! This chapter is sort of a mixture of both happy and sad, because, well, yesterday I celebrated being with my boyfriend/fiancé for 12 years! I couldn't bear to write an _all_-sad piece, so there's some hope and some happy mixed into the angst, this time.**

**Next update won't be until next week, unfortunately, because the ol' laptop is going in for repairs! Yaay! I'm going to start throwing some flashbacks in soon, just to warn you all. This means we still get to see Blaine! I'm so sorry about killing him, by the way, for all you Klainers out there - myself included! - but it was necessary! :'(**

**Please please please review! I love to know what you're thinking :) Also, at one point I spell Blaine's name wrong a few times - this is on purpose. While I'm at it, I must remember to disclaim not only Glee, but also Pretty In Pink.**

**-Stormy Sally xx**

(chapter two)

_To you, your father should be __**as a god**__;  
>One that compos'd your beauties, yea, and one<br>To whom you are but as a form in wax  
>By him imprinted, and within his power<br>To leave the figure or disfigure it._  
><em><strong>A Midsummer Night's Dream<strong>_** (1.1.50-4)**

The boy blinked lethargically as Burt approached, his eyes following the man in sunken sockets as deeply coloured as fresh bruises. But the irises glowed glasz, and Burt caught his breath as he stared into the face that was truly Katherine Gibson's son.

He had her eyes, her high cheekbones, her easily furrowed brow.

But he couldn't be sure if the boy shared her smile. It was as if the muscles in the teen's face had lost their strength, leaving him blank and cold. His chapped lips were naturally downturned, leaving his sad eyes the most lively of his features.

Burt walked through the room with his gaze trained on this fragile being. Justin sat at the window, but Burt took the seat next to the boy's bed, aware of the fear that radiated from his bed in waves of sickly chills.

He could hear Justin's calm breaths in a gentle rhythm, quietly soothing. But the boy's were deep and fast, panic flickering in his constant expression.

He was a fine featured boy, despite the translucency of his skin, the bags around his eyes, the bruising and the flecks of cuts as fine as glass shards; there was a femininity to the way his eyelashes curled, the slender slant of those unsmiling lips. Burt tried not to worry, but his teeth were on edge as he looked at this boy.

Could this be his son?

His resolve faltered.

"Hey, kid."

Was that his voice? That terrified croak of two syllables that earned a flinch from the boy.

Burt could feel Justin's eyes on him, but he didn't care. As far as he was concerned there were two people on the room - himself, and the boy who may well be his flesh and blood.

"You ok?"

Burt Hummel knew perfectly well he had said many stupid things over the years, but he was fairly certain that was the worst of them all.

It was just the natural thing to say.

He was going to have to wing this one, he realised. He found he wasn't as horrified by the thought as he had expected he would be.

"Can you tell me your name, kid?"

The boy stared idly at him, and Burt had no idea how to tell whether or not he'd been understood.

He remembered meeting twelve year old Finn for the first time, how shy and bashful the boy had been. He remembered his many failed attempts to warm to the boy before he finally found a happy medium of respect and friendship with him.

And yet for all those excruciating times of unhappy awkwardness trying desperately to form a bond with the son of his girlfriend, Burt felt he would repeat the difficult ordeal of Finn's slow acceptance all over again if only to avoid the pain of looking at this broken shell of a teenager.

That only made it worse.

"My name's Burt," he introduced, pointing at his chest, then clasping his hands on his lap again.

Perhaps it was just imagination, wishful thinkings of a man who preferred optimism to despair, but Burt was sure he saw something stir in those glasz eyes. Not happiness, not even acknowledgement, but something. The glimmer of hope Burt clung to grew just a little brighter.

And then those slim lips moved.

At first Burt felt unsure he could make the word out, but then the boy said it again, louder, more desperate. He turned away to face his blankets, which he fisted with brittle fingers.

"Blaine…"

_Blane_? Burt wondered. The worrying butterflies of his intestines squirmed. Blane, a character of Pretty in Pink. Pretty in Pink, one of the few films Burt would ever willingly watch of Kathy's choice, and then she in return would agree to watching Hitchcock's classics.

Could she have…?

"Blane?" he whispered over his shoulder to Justin, who leaned forwards, talking barely above a murmuring hum.

"Anderson," the younger man explained. "His parents reported him missing in Chicago two years ago."

Burt's hopes plummeted, along with his heart and the bottom of his queasy stomach.

Not Blane, then.

"Kid?" he asked with deliberate hesitation.

This time the eyes did not return to his direction, but the lips moved soundlessly. Burt's heart swelled as he saw the pure will to _just talk _in the boy's face. "It's ok, you know," he said in the same voice he had used with Finn during a long conversation in which he explained to the fretting thirteen year old he was not trying to replace his war-hero father by marrying his mother. "It's ok to be scared."

The response was instantaneous.

The boy's head snapped up to meet Burt's, eyes flashing angrily and his sadness unfurling into snarls.

"I'm not scared of _you_."

It was then that he noticed the boy's voice, pale as his skin, a feminine growl with the ferocity of a cornered wildcat. Burt was fairly sure there was no type of drug that made the addict's voice higher with overuse…

Justin audibly shifted, but Burt stayed calm. He thought back to his fights with Kathy, her temper when she was forced to get defensive. He wondered if the boy had inherited _any_ paternal traits, or if he was all Kathy's.

"Then you got a name for me?" Burt asked coolly.

He'd watched enough Hollywood to know how the cops and docs would have treated the _victim_. Like a glass sculpture, fragile and sensitive, as if he was unable to handle being spoken to like a human.

"I'll start," he offered with an encouraging smile. "I'm Burt Hummel."

The boy dropped his eyes, but they peeked up through his lashes.

He hummed a name that the older man had to ask for three times over before he could hear it properly.

"Kurt."

It was barely a breath of a confession, but it fell so perfectly into place that Burt's fingers twitched in his lap.

Katherine and Burt; the son of Katherine and Burt.

Burt's eyes prickled, hot and wet.

"Kurt," he repeated, and he couldn't hide the wonder in his voice that pulled the boy's eyebrows - _Kurt's _eyebrows - down in a frown of confusion.

Kurt nodded shyly.

Justin hummed behind him, shuffling with interest.

"Kurt," Burt began in a humble voice. "Can you tell me your surname?"

Kurt shrugged in a small jerk of his head, scratching at his fingers and picking at his cuticles.

"I see," Burt nodded.

He turned around, glancing over to Justin.

The Sergeant's cold, calculating eyes were staring with peaked interest at Kurt, leaning forwards with elbows on his knees and one hand rubbing his jaw curiously.

"Kurt," Burt continued. He had the beginnings of the boy's attention and trust, and he planned to take advantage of that. "How old are you?"

Kurt's eyes had locked with the man's; Burt wondered how long it would last.

"Seventeen," Kurt admitted with another breath through shaking lips, his high pitched voice wavering.

Burt pressed his lips together as he watched the boy fight his emotions. Kurt was struggling to keep himself in check, warring against the tears that clung to his eyelashes.

"I want Blaine." The words that escaped Kurt's lips seemed to shock more than just the two men. Kurt's entire frame began to shake and he gasped for breath, choking on air. His chin pressed into his chest and his hands clutched at his stomach.

He was groaning in pain between sobs, and Burt couldn't tell how much was physical and how much was emotional.

Without warning, Justin's arm brushed over Burt's shoulder and pressed the emergency button next to Kurt's bed.

Before he could think about it, Burt had reached over to place a hand on the boy's arm. His first tear fell when Kurt shied from him.

The teen curled over his stomach, rubbing his tears against his bent knees.

Two nurses appeared before Burt could make another attempt to console the boy, fussing around him. Burt allowed Justin to pull him out of his chair to the side of the room Kurt's knees were forced straight and his torso flattened out.

"Come on," Justin tugged at Burt's arm lightly, and Burt tore his gaze away from the boy to see the insistence in the officer's eyes. "We need to leave."

They slipped out of the room, sidling around a doctor as he rushed to join the nurses, and though they were in the corridor in seconds, Kurt's screams for the surrounding adults to _just let go _followed him all the way, ripping at his gut and tugging at his heart.

**glee**

Carole Hummel's day had been one of high tension, high dread, and a constant bubbling in her stomach.

Burt had left for the police station early. Finn and Puck had breakfasted with her at ten, and were out of the house to visit their friend Artie's for a gaming day before she could find the words to explain Burt's absence as anything other than a work emergency. They had seemed untroubled by her excuse, and had failed to notice the full bowl of cereal still sitting in front of her as they raced each other out of the house.

Usually she relished her Saturdays off work, but today she mourned it.

With no work to distract her, Carole decided a spring clean of the house was in order. She had no idea what Burt's plan was, but it went without saying that she planned to support him, whatever his decision.

She had finished the master bedroom, the spare bedroom, the stairs, the landing, the hallway, and was half way through the living room by the time the front door opened and shut with the speed of a hurricane, followed swiftly by the thundering of feet rushing from bottom to top of the carpeted stairs. Carole called out her husband's name to no reply.

Switching off the vacuum cleaner, she jogged lightly upstairs, pausing at the open doorway of the bedroom she shared with Burt Hummel, who was currently rooting through his jumpers drawer.

"Sweetheart?" she had asked timidly.

"Yes?" Burt had replied, glancing up at the woman with frantic eyes.

"You're going, then?"

"Next flight to New York," was all he had said, stuffing his clothes into a bag before selecting photos from the album that they kept in their bedside cabinet and slotting them into the side pocket.

Their conversation had been short and tearful, with little information exchanged and plenty of comforts.

And then the house had been empty again, and she had continued with the living room carpet.

The house was spotless by the time the front door opened again.

High from the hilarity of their day of video games, Finn and Puck had all but skipped to the kitchen to enquire what it was they were having for dinner.

Carole had promised them meatballs and spaghetti, and they had retired to the basement for more games.

Once upon a time Carole would have joked about square eyes, and trying out some other form of recreational activity, but not today. Instead she remained silent as she drained the pasta and stirred the sauce for the meatballs.

The dinner, as usual, was a success. Two growing teenage boys in the house meant she'd made enough to feed a family of six, but somehow they managed to clean the plates right out. During the course of the meal they'd asked about Burt's 'work emergency', but she had glossed over it smoothly, and, too interested in their food, they had left it well enough alone.

Until dessert.

Armed with chocolate ice cream in large bowls, Carole had ushered the two boys into the living room. Finn and Puck, intrigued as to why on earth they had permission to eat something as strongly staining as chocolate ice cream on the couch, followed obediently. They could tell something was wrong, and they voiced their concerns once sat on the sofa, with Carole in Burt's armchair.

"I need to talk to you about something, boys," Carole replied seriously.

The duo caught each other's eyes and guiltily rested their bowls of ice cream on their laps. Their love of food was strong, but not quite as strong as their love and respect for Carole.

"What's wrong, Mom?" Finn asked halfway through swallowing his mouthful of sticky chocolate goo, coughing and spluttering when it lodged in his throat.

"You remember what I told you about Burt's old girlfriend, Kathy, right?"

Finn nodded slowly, looking uneasy, but Puck shook his head, frowning.

"Kathy, Burt's ex-girlfriend," Carole explained with a nod to Puck, "disappeared a long time ago. They thought maybe she had run away to New York, because it was one of the places she and Burt had always talked about going to. But no luck."

Puck nodded in understanding, but still glanced in confusion at Finn, who shrugged.

"Well, Burt got a call last night from the police, saying that a teenage boy has been found carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy."

Finn's frown deepened, and he leaned back in the sofa as if to distance himself from his mother, trying to work out what she was talking about. A long, slow breath escaped Puck's lips, a distinct groan of understanding in the back of his throat.

"They think he's Kathy and Burt's son," Carole explained to Finn.

"Burt has a son?" Finn cried, looking scandalised.

"We don't know, Finn!" Carole insisted, sounding exasperated. "They think Kathy was pregnant when she…ran away," Carole had never really understood what had happened, or what was the correct turn of phrase. Run away? Missing? She just didn't know. "Burt's gone to New York."

"To see if he's his son?" Puck cut in, looking excited. There was an eager smile pulling at Puck's lips, and though Carole wanted to cry, she felt a smile twitch her facial muscles.

She nodded, eyes flitting between the boys.

"And if it turns out this boy is Burt's son, then, _eventually_," Carole pressed, knowing how her boys, as she would always thinks of them as a duo, tended to think in the present, not with the future in mind, "he's going to come home with Burt. To live with us," she added for further clarification.

There was a brief moment of silence as the words sank in, and then equal expressions of surprised delight lit up the room as both boys' faces split into identical grins.

"That's awesome, Mom!" Finn and Puck high fived, before firing questions about exactly who the boy was. How old? His name? Would he sleep in the basement with them? When was he coming home?

Carole rubbed her hands over her forehead, wondering where on earth her husband was at that moment, and what he was doing in New York. Whether he was at the hospital, whether he'd met his son. And she wondered what would happen if this boy did come back to Lima with Burt, her boys' hopes and ideas feeling so very far from the true, inevitable outcome.

**glee**

Burt spent every waking minute expecting the tiredness to hit him, but he just kept going.

On two cups of coffee he made it through half an hour of sitting with Sergeant Justin McDonnell as they waited for news of Kurt, at least an hour of waiting by himself, blood sampling for the paternity test, more waiting with Justin…

When finally they were approached by a doctor as they sat in the nearest waiting room, slouched in their seats and comfortably silent, it was past one in the morning. Burt sat up once it became clear the doctor was walking towards them, and when Justin dragged his chair around so that a trio of seats were clustered, he followed suit, so as to keep them closed off from anybody passing by as they talked.

"Doctor Reedman," Justin nodded to the now seated doctor, glancing at Burt, who shrugged fretfully.

"You're the boy's father?" the surprisingly young doctor asked.

"Umm," Burt nodded halfway through his nod.

"We're assuming so for now. Please continue," Justin interrupted. His authoritative voice was back, and the doctor humbly mumbled an agreement.

The doctor was a small man, with shortly cropped brown hair, and his dark eyes flitted between the man and the officer with sympathy in the downward crease of his lips.

"Kurt is out of surgery," he began, sounding both wary and hopeful. "We've managed to talk to Miss White-" he froze, eyes finding Justin, who sighed and waved a hand vacantly at Burt.

"He knew there was a girl involved. Keep going."

"Kurt isn't being very co-operative, however, she's been a little easier to get through to. That was definitely the first time she or Kurt had ever injected cocaine straight into their system. Apparently the deceased-" his young, inexperienced voice stumbled over the word, and Burt's hands flexed instinctively at the word, "-had been injecting for quite some time. They, however, have tried other drugs, but generally they've been ingesting cocaine.

"This has several positives. The lack of needles has severely reduced the risk of HIV and other blood-borne diseases for Kurt; of course, we don't yet know how his…_job_ played out, whether or not care was taken to remain safe. We'll get the results of his tests back soon, and we'll be sure to let you know."

His sympathy was directed mostly at Burt, because he knew it was police officer's duty to hear such details, whereas Burt was clearly completely new to this. His face was ashen, and sweat was glaring a shine from the ceiling lights about on his forehead. Burt swallowed, and tapped his hand on his knee, not trusting his voice to tell a convincing enough lie and say he was _fine_, or _ok_, or any other falsity.

"And not smoking it means he's not likely to have trouble with nosebleeds, or have to worry about damage to vocal chords. However," the doctor's grimly set eyebrows twitched as he clasped his hands in his lap, on top of a clipboard. "It has resulted in severe internal gangrene in Kurt's bowels, which explains the pains he was experiencing. The surgery has successfully removed all the dead tissue; with further treatment and care he should hopefully be fine. Luckily there was no evidence to suggest it had turned septic."

Doctor Reedman smiled encouragingly at this, reassuring his audience that this was indeed good news.

Neither men could quite bring themselves to share his joy, so he pressed on.

"He's awake now, but he's already showing signs of restlessness and irritability. This is common with cocaine withdrawal. It's something of an odd withdrawal process-" again a nod to Burt, who, unlike Justin, had no knowledge of drugs beyond being tricked into trying ecstasy once as a drunk teenager, "-unlike many drug withdrawals, there aren't typically any obvious physical symptoms, such as chills or vomiting. He'll have temper issues, he'll be restless, he'll be anxious, and of course there will be very overwhelming cravings for cocaine.

"Miss White did explain some of their dabblings in other drugs, but it seems the only real addiction we should be worrying about is cocaine. Kurt may or may not have an alcohol problem - there's no real damage to his liver, so if there is, we can be sure it isn't too serious."

Again that frustrating, heartening smile.

This boy, not yet a man, _only _had a cocaine addiction and possible alcoholism?

Nothing too much. No big deal.

Burt wanted to cry with exasperation, and to his sudden humiliation he realised he was close to doing just that; his throat was closing up, and his eyes were wet. He blinked rapidly, sitting upright and shifting in his seat.

"Like I said, he's not being very co-operative," Doctor Reedman pressed lightly. "He seemed at his best when he was speaking to you, actually, Mr…"

"Hummel," Burt supplied in a thick voice. He wondered if he could pass it off as an abrupt head cold…by the furtive glances of a concerned Justin, he supposed not.

"Mr Hummel," Doctor Reedman nodded understandingly, tactful enough to not acknowledge Burt was quite clearly feeling overwhelmed. "If you wish, it might do both of you some good if you see him again."

Burt had no reply, so he nodded, and allowed Justin to supply the niceties - the _thank you_ and the _until soon, doctor_ - and he also allowed the Sergeant to steer him down the corridor, back towards the same room they had vacated a few hours ago.

When he arrived the first time, it had been silent; when he left, the air had been ripped apart with high pitched screams of agony.

His second entrance was greeted with a silence eerier than the first. The same dark blue light as before cast sickly shadows, and the darkness still leaked into the room from around the hastily drawn blinds at the window.

And the boy was still too thin, too pale, too young.

The restlessness Doctor Reedman had mentioned presented itself in two ways. The first, a tapping of his fingers, erratic rhythms beaten into the measly blankets. The second, a nervous shift of his eyes from wall to wall, taking in anything and everything at once.

He was lying back properly, the bed tilted to allow him to sit up a little, but there was a stiffness to his posture that indicated pain, and Burt swallowed nervously as he took the same seat as before. And it wasn't until he had captured the boy's suspicious attention that Burt realised Justin had stayed outside, guarding the door with another officer.

Not that there was anything to be scared of…but of course, this was his first time alone with Kurt. His first time alone _with his son_, he found himself thinking.

Kurt eyed him with obvious paranoia, gaze flitting to the windows and the door twice over before returning to Burt's face.

"Remember me, kid?" Burt asked tenderly.

He didn't expect Kurt to pull the expression that was his reply, but decided that _Bitch, please_ was a facial expression that suited the teen. It brought him to life, if only for a moment, and it brought a gentle smile to Burt's lips.

"Dumb question," he admitted guiltily.

Kurt nodded once, merely a jerk downwards of the head, his chin hitting his chest, but it was a start.

"Kurt-" the boy flinched a little at his name, but didn't protest, his sad eyes wide with reluctant interest. "If I ask you a question, will you answer me honestly?"

In all truthfulness, the wary shrug of one shoulder was a far better response than he had expected from his question.

_What can you tell me about your mom?_

_What can you tell me about your mom?_

_What can you tell me about your mom?_

He lost his nerve just as the question reached his lips.

"How are you feeling, right now?"

Burt's best friend's mother, of all people, had asked him that three days after Kathy disappeared. Exactly that question: _How are you feeling, right now_? Because she was right, lots of people made assumptions about his feelings, or they misinterpreted things, and it was so frustrating. But amidst the panic and the depression, and the fear and heartbreak, he couldn't bring himself to care enough to correct them.

Kurt seemed surprised by the question. His dry lips parted with a silent _pop_, and his brow creased a little. It seemed he was genuinely considering the question before answering.

"Alone."

And Burt knew instinctively that it was the most brutally honest reply this boy could have given.

It was a wonder his entire chest didn't cleave in two along with his heart as he heard those two syllables.

Kurt still hadn't looked away, though the breathy answer to Burt's cutting question had exuded utter fear. His eyes, grey in the weak light, were red-rimmed but dry, and staring stoically back at Burt with a forced resolve.

Until Burt pushed again, just a little too close to the heart.

"And who's…who's Blaine?"

The boy's gaze fell instantly, finding his frantically tapping fingers, squeezing those bright eyes shut.

His lips moved soundlessly until a soft whimper of a voice escaped his tired throat.

"I loved him."

His eyes were still squeezed shut, protecting himself from the world. One of his hands flew to his stomach to pat a feather-touch at the bandages that encased his torso, and Burt could only watch, unsure what he was supposed to think.

Burt had never liked to think of himself as a man who judged books by their covers, but his lack of surprise at the statement confirmed the nagging suspicion that he'd guessed this not so small secret about his possible-son the moment he set eyes on him; or at least from the moment he heard his voice.

He tried to brush it aside, to look at the bigger picture. He'd always thought of himself as open minded, a good man. But as he looked at this broken boy, he was suddenly aware of the list he had started making in his head.

_Drug addict_.

_Prostitute_.

_Gay_.

He'd just listed this boy's sexuality alongside his hobby as a junkie and his job as a whore.

The guilt threatened to consume him entirely, even if Kurt had no idea what he was thinking, had no way of knowing that liking boys had just been equated to having sex for money by the man who was coaxing his secrets from him. And the guilt intensified when, in an attempt to build a bridge between then, Burt had reached to take Kurt's hand, only for Kurt to retract it, stuffing his icy hands beneath the covers and screwing his face tighter as he clenched his eyelids.

Burt simply watched him.

Watched him fight the pain until he was shivering with exhaustion. Watched him pull the blankets higher up his chest, hiding from the world; this world that had handed him nothing but trick cards and dead ends.

The world that left him parentless, alone in a big city, at the mercy of drugs and men with enough money to pay for his body. The world that had forever denied him the chance to pass go and collect two-hundred.

Until now.

Burt stood abruptly, wincing as Kurt flinched violently at the sudden, unseen movement beside him. He stalked out of the room, leaving the boy to shake against his crisp, clean, unloved hospital pillow.

He stopped outside the door, breathless, with his jaw set in solid determination.

Justin, seeing the change to Burt's meek persona, recognised a trait that Burt only now revealed.

The sparkle in his eye was one of paternal protectiveness, the same glint that shone in a wolf's gaze as it prepared to defend its pack. Its cubs.

"When do the paternity test results come back?"

He didn't care what time it was. He wouldn't sleep yet. Not yet.

"Uhh," Justin hummed, "Late morning, I guess. I'd have to ch-"

"I don't care what it says."

"Excuse me?" Justin paused, giving Burt a double take.

"What will happen if he's not mine? _What will happen_?" he insisted when the Sergeant didn't reply instantly to the first question.

"Rehabilitation clinics, I'd say," Justin said as honestly as he could, though it truly was a guess. "He'll be eighteen soon, we wouldn't bother with the fostering. We'd get him some help, then once he's both eighteen years of age, and deemed clean by a chosen rehab, he'd be-"

"I want to take him," Burt interrupted, manners be _damned_. "Whether he's mine or not. I want to take him in. I want him to come home with me."

"Burt, we're still in early days, here, we can talk about-"

Burt gasped in exasperation. The muffled sobs of the lost boy in the room beside them was filling his ears as painful as the screams from earlier that night.

"Please, Justin," he begged, staring the younger man directly in the eye. "I want to do this for him."

Justin's wall of understanding authority crumbled, revealing a man of empathy; a man who knew, just _knew_, that what Burt wanted was the right thing to do.

He sighed into his palm, taking in the frantic mess that, a few hours ago, had been the well put together, if a little tired, Burt Hummel.

"I'll see about those tests. Maybe we can speed up the results. I'll tell them it's important."

He wanted to feel ashamed for caving in to the pleadings of a civilian from Ohio, who knew nothing of the way his office was run, and was dreaming of things that by all rights shouldn't be an option. But the truth was, this was the reason Justin McDonnell had become a Sergeant in NYPD: to do good.

Burt had walked away after hearing his assurance, and was back inside the room, sitting at the bedside of the trembling figure beneath the covers. They weren't talking, and the boy wasn't looking at his companion, but already Burt's entire image had changed.

No longer was he awkward stranger visiting.

Now, he was father protecting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: As A God**

**Summary: 18 years ago, Burt Hummel's girlfriend disappeared. He spent months desperately searching, but eventually he had to accept Kathy was gone. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, Finn, and even Finn's best friend. But then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old admitted to hospital for a drug overdose and carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? There's only one way to find out.**

**Warnings: Right, this is a long one. Violence, substance abuse, sexual violence, prostitution (including underage), swearing, 'phobic slander, angsty goodness, self harm, suicidal thoughts (possibly acts)…yeah, this will be quite dark at times, at least, the themes will be.**

**Your reviews make me so so so so happy! Honestly, please keep them coming, they're wonderful :)**

**Thanks for patiently waiting, the laptop is now fixed! Which means happy Sally (and Kyle). Here we have proof I am not going to ignore Blaine, simply because he is deceased, and this is achieved because, my dear readers, **_italics are flashbacks_**. There will be more in future chapters, these are all Kurt, but others may have flashbacks later on in the story :)**

**Warning! Not entirely graphic…yet. It will get graphic the further we go into the story. I apologise for being so mean to poor Kurt :'(**

**-Stormy Sally xx**

(chapter three)

_To you, your father should be __**as a god**__;  
>One that compos'd your beauties, yea, and one<br>To whom you are but as a form in wax  
>By him imprinted, and within his power<br>To leave the figure or disfigure it._  
><em><strong>A Midsummer Night's Dream<strong>_** (1.1.50-4)**

_"You've never done this before, have you?"_

_She's not much taller than him, but he still shrinks at her approach. It's been three days since anybody has talked to him without hostility. For two days he sat alone in the apartment and waited for mom. On the third day, two men came to take him to see a man known only as _mommy's friend_. They didn't really talk to him, just took him with them._

_Then there was _mommy's friend_. A tall man with a trickster smile and eyebrows that never, ever moved. _Mommy's friend_, who was so very sad to say that _sorry, mommy's not here anymore_._

_It's been years since he called her mommy, but he's too confused to say anything._

_Is she dead? Why don't they just say that? He realises that they think he'll start crying._

_But he won't. Not for that._

_They just say _mommy's not here anymore_, and then they talk to him about _mommy's job_. They talk to him about how mommy would have wanted him to _take her place_, and that it's an _honour_ to be like his mommy. They explain that _mommy brought happiness to a lot of people.

_If only she'd brought happiness to him, he can't help but think back in his head._

_Now this girl is talking to him. She's fourteen years old, and being several years his senior, that makes her worldly wise, as far as he's concerned. He listens to her with rapt attention._

_She's blonde, with a cherub face. She's called Sadie White. But on the streets, he's going to have to call her _Snow_._

Like Snow White, you get it?

_She sounds proud of herself, but he doesn't really get it. All he knows is that she's Snow, and he's Porcelain. And they're going to the streets together._

_He's not stupid. He knows enough about _mommy's job_ to be scared._

_He wants to cry, but he did that yesterday, and the man with the unmoving eyebrows met his face with the back of his hand to keep him quiet._

_So he walks beside Sadie, and when she asks whether or not he's done this before, he tells the truth._

No.

_And she squeezes his hand tightly, but only for a second, and then her grubby, sweaty warmth is gone._

_He tugs at his clothes. They're tighter than he likes, and smaller. He prefers the big football jersey in his old apartment; the one mom always told him he had to look after, because it was all the way from Ohio, and belonged to a good, good man she knew there._

_On the good days, she would tell him about Ohio; sometimes she'd make a mistake, and call it Oz. Whenever she did that, she'd say the same thing - _might as well be Oz, sweetheart_. On the bad days, he'd just sit in the jersey and avoid her._

_He doesn't like these tight clothes. They make him shiver in the nightly chill, and he wants to wrap his arms around himself. But when he does, Sadie - _Snow _- tells him not to, and pulls his arms back to his sides again._

_A man is following them, she whispers when she is pretending to fix his shirt. He's there to take the money, she says knowledgably, which he doesn't like very much._

_They keep walking._

_Some people watch them - he can feel their eyes on him._

_Snow tells him to keep walking. _

Watchers are cowards_, she informs him_. We wait for talkers.

_They don't meet a talker until after midnight._

_The talker in question has a rabbity face, and his fingers twitch like a rabbit, and he sniffs a lot, like the rabbits in the cartoons that used to play in the tv, before mom sold it. The talker slips some money into the hand of the man following them. He wants to hold Sadie's - _Snow's! _- hand again, but he can't, because the talker has hold of his elbow, and is pulling him towards the building that the following man points to._

_He's been here before (mom took him, once; he played with ripped clothes in the back) and he doesn't like it any more than he did the first time._

_Actually, this time is worse, he decides._

_The talker asks for his name._

Ku…Porcelain_. Just a shy whisper. He doesn't like the way the man looks at him, nudges his fingers around the outlines of these awful clothes._

_There's a mattress on the floor, and not much else. It's as dirty as the rotting wood, and he wonders why they even bothered._

_He's grateful for it, though, when his hands and knees are digging into it._

_He hates those clothes, but he wants them back on. Being on all fours is vulnerable enough without being naked, too._

_And that man's hands are tracing patterns into his hips._

Should have called you Alabaster, Porcelain_._

_They're both shaking violently, but the divide between excitement and fear is obvious._

Damn Malone and his men,_ the man is cursing, and he knows now that he just wants to get this over with, because he can't stand waiting for it any longer_.Condoms are supposed to be for the people who give a shit.

_He remembers something mom said once, when she mentioned _Malone _and _condoms _in the same sentence. Preserving the meat - or was it taking pride in the meat? Maybe both._

_He tries to remind himself that this man may not like condoms, but he should be grateful for Malone's will to preserve the meat. It doesn't work, because he's still shaking with terror and the man is growling in his ear, leaning over his back._

_Skin to skin burns with cold sweat. His eyes are shut and his joints are weak and his cheeks are damp with tears and his throat is raw and his toes curl inwards and his body shatters._

_And the pain is unbearable._

**glee**

There was something harrowing about the way Kurt described his life.

It was casual, with a tone of indifference that bordered on self-destructive; at the very least, lacking self-respect.

It chilled Burt's newly awoken paternal core like nothing he'd ever heard before.

There was no pretty screen veiling the truth as it left the boy's lips in sharp vowels and harsh consonants. Julia Roberts was all very well in Pretty Woman, but her dazzling smile and shaggy brown hair - once upon a time charming for a romantic comedy - seemed to mock the truth of prostitution.

Burt tried his best not to imagine it, but the mental images were there, the picture painted by the brush of Kurt's tongue, and already Burt was _sick _with it.

He wanted nothing more than to fold Kurt up in his arms and promise to forever protect him. Promise him nothing like that will ever happen again.

After Justin had left to chase up the paternity test, Burt had returned to Kurt's room to find the boy wide awake, face still wet but eyes dry. And then they'd talked.

At least, Burt asked and Kurt answered - hesitantly, to be sure, and with a tone of reluctance and paranoia, but he answered, nonetheless.

And after a while they fell into silence, during which Kurt dropped to sleep sporadically for a few minutes at a time. And as he dozed, Burt watched. And thought about calling Carole, until he remembered it was five in the morning, and she deserved to sleep.

So he sat in silence, not sleeping. And the silence swallowed him the way loneliness had swallowed the boy beside him for over seventeen years.

He hadn't asked about Blaine again, and he hadn't asked about Kathy.

Not directly, at least.

He wondered vaguely if Kurt recognised him, had guessed he was the twenty year old punk in the photo he had carried in his back pocket as he walked the streets of New York's dark underworld. He thought probably no, by the apathy with which Kurt addressed him, as if talking to a stranger made only of ears to talk to.

Sleep had become some distant idea, a theory he had once followed. The question of his child was more important than sleep. Or food. Or oxygen. And when Kurt awoke fully as the minutes ticked closer to six in the morning, Burt asked a question that had been burning his tongue for hours.

"Can you tell me anything about your parents?"

And Kurt's reply was as lazy as listing groceries.

"My mom's dead."

Of course Burt knew that, but this was still _Kathy_, and it still hurt. But what was even more painful was that Kurt just didn't seem to care.

"Oh," he replied, gauging Kurt's expression (blank as ever, muscles unpractised in the art of emotion, it would seem) before continuing. "I'm sorry."

The cynicism crept back into Kurt's cutting eyes as he rubbed tenderly at the bandages around his stomach.

"How did it happen?"

Boldly asked, but Kurt seemed to prefer this to the tentative approach.

"She got into a fight with a customer."

He said it plain as day, one-shouldered shrug and all, as if this was someone other than the woman who gave birth to him.

"He strangled her," Kurt added, as if worried Burt hadn't understood.

Burt, his throat raw and dry, nodded and coughed simultaneously, blinking hard and fast, because that was _his _Kathy that the bastard had killed, had dared to put his hands on, had squeezed the life out of…

But when he closed his eyes he found Carole's face, and a flush of guilt flooded through him. Was it right to mourn a woman he'd already spent so many years denying himself love for? Was it right, now that he was married to the most wonderful woman to walk the face of this earth?

"When?"

A natural question, and he hoped Kurt wasn't observant enough to detect the personal pain in his voice.

"I was eleven."

But this time, there was nothing casual about Kurt's voice. It was cold and lonely, timidly admitting to a deeply buried fear that he'd spent the past few hours - the past few _years_? - suppressing behind a cold persona of strength.

Burt opened his eyes to a different boy.

Kurt was hunching into his pillow with his arms wrapped around his torso, shoulder muscles taut and frame rigidly locked. The death of his mother was worthy of a roll of the eyes, yet the memory of being eleven years old shattered his façade.

"Hey, kid," Burt hummed, and he reached his hand forwards. To his utter surprise, Kurt allowed him to press his fingers onto his arm, rubbing his bicep with his thumb in comfort.

The mask fell along with the tears, and Burt was there to catch the boy as he fell towards him, the last of the fight going out of him. And the first sob ripped through Kurt's fragile body, like the violent bursting of a long sealed dam.

**glee**

He'd cried himself into oblivion, finally silent with both his hands locked around one of Burt's, his face pressed into the man's shoulder, leaving the man's shirt damp with tears. Burt slept, too, his cheek on the crown of Kurt's head, and when he awoke they were in the same position. He stretched the cramp out of his head cautiosly, and slowly rubbed his thumb over a row of the teen's knuckles, which were raw with dry skin.

At a bleary glance of his watch, Burt was shocked to realise it was nearly midday.

He returned his attention to Kurt with tender eyes, examining his features as best as he could without moving. He didn't want to jostle the boy into wakefulness now he had finally been granted the gift of sleep.

Snatches of Kurt's conversation with him the previous night were still ringing in his mind, haunting him with a guilt he couldn't explain, as if somehow he could have stopped this from happening…

If only he'd _known_.

…_It's what they wanted. They paid us, so it wasn't like it was for nothing…_

…_Not all of them were rough animals, you know. Some of them had these sick fantasies of stealing away with one of us, like they were some fucking hero come to save us. But in the end? They all handed their cash, did their thing, then left…_

…_It started just smoking some weed now and then, to take the edge off. Then that lost its jazz, and then one thing led to another…_

…_It was usually an all night, seven night a week job. It's not like we had anything else to do…_

…_You know, it could have been a lot worse. We let them play out whatever the fuck they wanted, so long as they wrapped their dick in something to keep us clean. Occasional broken hips beats Aids, right?..._

…_It's not like I'm some pathetic heroin addict. Coke is good. It makes you feel good. We all fucking did it. I'm not special, you know…_

Burt swallowed the bile that slicked his throat. He tried to see past the visual descriptions to the little boy beneath it all. The little boy with bronzed hair and pale skin; he tried to envision hair that had been cared for, skin without bruises and scars.

It was almost impossible.

Burt tried not to think about how many times Kurt's hips _had _been broken; he tried not to think about how many of those monsters _had been _rough animals; and he tried not to think about how long it would have been before Kurt _did_ become a heroin addict, if at seventeen he had progressed to injecting cocaine from the occasional smoke of weed.

He studied Kurt's face, taking in the peace in his expression, tranquil as a still sea after a storm now that his crying had subsided into slow, slumbering breaths. The delicate eyelashes and the swollen, cut lips, and the yellowing purple around his eyes, and the strange rip in his left earlobe, like the gap from a torn out earring.

"Burt?"

Justin's voice snapped him from his pained reverie, tentative and hanging in the air between them like poisonous fumes. Burt lifted his head instinctively, and cleared his throat with a nervous blush.

"Yeah?" He was hoarse, but glad his voice didn't falter this time as it had done so often the previous night. Justin stepped further into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

"You were asleep when I came in earlier…" Justin explained, and only then did Burt notice the single sheet of paper, a horizontal crease in the middle but flattened with over-reading, that the young man was fiddling with. "I got the results."

If Burt hadn't been so aware of Kurt's deadened weight on his arm, he would have most likely leapt out of his chair and charged at the officer. As it was, he raised his eyebrows eagerly, eyes wide and mouth open in _the _unvoiced question.

Justin was biting his lips, a groove in his forehead that broke into a look of exhausted relief.

And then he nodded.

In another time, Burt was sure the news he had another child to care for, provide for, would have brought the world crashing down around his ears, bending his back with the responsibility.

But it felt as if something had been lifted from his shoulders, some anguished expectation looming over him, pulling him down. And now he was airless.

"H…He's mine?" He could barely whisper the thought, as if saying it too loudly would make it untrue.

Justin's nod was firmer this time, his smile brighter.

"He's yours."

Burt didn't have to fight the urge to _whoop! _in exultation, because as the shout of excitement rose in his throat, another thought swallowed it back down, leaving him gasping for breath.

Justin frowned questioningly at him.

"Burt? Are you alright?"

And Burt stared down at the boy almost in his arms, so close and yet a million miles away from a son…

"How am I going to explain this to him?"

**glee**

_It's approaching four in the morning. Being winter, it isn't even close to sunrise yet, but the cold is bitter and all he wants is to go home. New York, unsleeping New York, is still not at rest, but he just wants to go home._

_"Porcelain, where the fuck is the rest?"_

_And Porcelain shivers, his aching body leaning against the wall beside them for support. The chill is bringing tears to his eyes, or perhaps that's the tone of the man's voice…_

_"I'll get it for you tomorrow," Porcelain whispers into the windless air._

_"No you won't, you sneaky fucker," the man snaps, fisting the boy's shirt and pulling him up, up, up, until he's teetering on the tips of his toes. "You go back out there, and you get me another hundred. That's _one hundred_, you fuck."_

_He drops the boy, whose knees crumple beneath him. He looks up at the man with hateful eyes._

_"Please, Spike, I'll get it tomorrow, I swear-"_

_"You'll swear nothing, Porcelain. Get your sweet ass up and onto that street, or I am doubling that number, and never lending you shit again."_

_It's a valid threat - Porcelain knows this, and he picks himself up with as much dignity as he can muster._

_"Spike," he mumbles pitifully, hating himself even more than he hates the angry man with the clenching fists and loud, abrasive voice._

_"I swear to god, Porcelain. I don't care if I have to drag you to every street corner and watch you give blowjobs to every horny son of a bitch in the whole of New York, I am getting that money off you."_

_"Spike!" Porcelain can do angry, too._

_Slap._

_And Porcelain retreats, because sometimes bruises can get men excited, but most of the time those with the money go for better meat if it's available. His hand covers the welt, rubbing tenderly and hiding his stinging eyes from the man._

_"Go, Porcelain."_

_"I'm going," the boy growls, but he doesn't make it two steps out of the alley when a voice stops him, and a light hand is pulling at his arm._

_Porcelain stops, turns, looks._

_The interrupter is a good three inches shorter than him at least, but he's well built - he's naturally short, his growth isn't stunted by malnutrition, just genetics - and he looks at Porcelain with the kindest eyes to be seen, the compassion in them as precious as the gold metal they resemble in colour. He's handsome, or soon to be, because he can't be any older than Porcelain._

_He's had young clients before, but this one's different._

_"How much?" the stranger asks, and Porcelain glances back at Spike, who rolls his eyes._

_"You can have him as long as you like for a hundred bucks," the man says smugly, and Porcelain's bottom lip wobbles. One hundred for free reign? It's a steal, really. Any time, any equipment, any way; and this stranger, this boy-stranger, looks nice and somewhat well dressed, but that means shit around here. Because appearances are deceiving._

_Take Porcelain, his name breakable, like the look of his skin,. And yet he's yet to break. Not even Spike has broken him, yet._

_"Ok," this boy-stranger says casually, and he's handing over the cash as Porcelain's wide eyes flutter and blink in panic._

_And Spike's taking the money, and pointing to the door at the side of the alley, and Porcelain is leading him with shaking legs to an empty room, deaf to the noises from behind the closed doors that he passes along the way. He's only aware of the footsteps that follow him, and the heavy breaths of his follower._

_And then he's closing the door and stepping back, awaiting instruction. He's been doing this for four years now. He should be used to it, but to his utter shame he fears he'll _never _get used to it._

_But the boy-stranger looks even more lost than he feels._

_"I'm Blaine," he says shyly._

_And Porcelain wants to vomit everywhere, because this guy just essentially _bought _him, and now he's trying to exchange pleasantries._

_"Who cares?"_

_"What's your name?"_

_The question is hasty and desperate, but also curious….genuine._

_"Porcelain," the pale boy replies coolly, and the boy-stranger looks saddened by this._

_"Funny thing to call your child."_

_"And Blaine isn't?"_

_He shouldn't be rude to customers, but he's angry and scared, because this boy-stranger has greater liberty over him than anyone has ever done at such a small price before; and he's already hurting all over, he doesn't want another rough one._

_But the boy-stranger looks impressed, because a smile twitches at his downturned lips. And then he points to the mattress on the floor._

_"You can just sleep, you know."_

_And then it's obvious; Porcelain sees it all now. That Blaine heard his argument with Spike, and this wasn't a job. This was pity._

_And Porcelain feels the pain of humiliation flare in his chest._

_"What a waste of your ownership over me. Don't you realise how cheap you just got me?"_

_And Blaine - boy-stranger, he corrects mentally; not Blaine, too informal, too friendly - shrugs._

_"Just sleep, Porcelain."_

_Porcelain sits in the middle of the mattress, can't hide the wince as his backside meets the material, keeps his back straight and his chin out. He's too proud to sleep._

_And this boy-stranger sits next to him, but soon curls up beside him._

_"You either sleep a while, or you sit there," he hums into the silence. Porcelain bristles at his patronising voice. "Your choice."_

_Boy-stranger is asleep before Porcelain gives in, hesitantly rests with his back to him._

_They wake up not long after sunrise, light streaming through the cracked window shutters. Porcelain's stiff, and the pain hasn't subsided, but a pair of arms have wound around his waist, and there's a forehead pressed into the niche between his shoulder blades. And boy-stranger, _Blaine_, hugs him tighter when he tries to get up and leave without a goodbye._

**glee**

Kurt blinked his way into wakefulness before the clock saw one o'clock in the afternoon.

His eyelashes clung together with the glue of his salty tears, and he rubbed the sleep away a little too hard with a knuckle, causing him to wince. He couldn't shake away the knowledge that he felt both significantly better for letting himself cry, and considerably worse for letting go of himself so humiliatingly.

But there was Burt, the man who just seemed to appear out of nowhere, ready to talk and listen. And this man was nobody to him, just a face - a strangely familiar one, perhaps, but just a face nonetheless; déjà vu meant nothing, Kurt was sure - and it was easy to talk to this man, knowing he meant nothing to him. He could let out all those secrets he'd been storing like a squirrel in November for so long.

And Burt hadn't judged him.

So waking up to see Burt sitting beside him was a surprising relief.

Kurt rubbed his teeth with his tongue, and it was then he saw the police officer sitting across the room, watching.

The man irritated him beyond words. He wasn't sure exactly why, but the uniform, the properness, the _dutiful_ way in which he carried himself…it all added up to a whole lot of nothing for Kurt. He gritted his teeth and glowered openly at the man, _Sergeant McDonnell_, without shame.

"Kurt."

Burt's voice cause him to look away from the sergeant, and focus instead on the one welcome visitor he had.

Burt looked better rested than before, but there was a deep worry line in his forehead that Kurt was sure hadn't been there before. And then Burt spoke again, in that same, unsure tone.

"Do you know who I am, Kurt?"

Kurt swallowed, grinding his teeth together.

What the _fuck _sort of question was that? Of _course _he knew who he was - they'd been talking the night before!

Yet he couldn't muster the energy to growl this reply, and he sounded small and weak. _Pathetic_, he realised in a burst of embarrassed self hate.

"You're Burt…" he said quietly.

"Yeah," Burt nodded. The older man's agitation was starting to affect Kurt. The need for the calm, lovely euphoria of cocaine was growing stronger every time he thought about it. His toes curled beneath the cover. The silent _drip drip drip _of the IV beside him was driving him mad.

Only then did Kurt notice Burt was holding something between light fingers, a scruffy square of once-glossy, now creased paper…

Kurt caught his breath in hi throat with a painful wince.

The photo.

"Kurt," Burt said slowly, and he turned the photo around.

Kurt hadn't looked at it in years. Not _really_. It was just a keepsake Malone had allowed him to take from his mother's belongings. It was of no use to him - if he'd been able to, he'd have pawned it, most likely.

But now his focus was almost entirely on the two people it depicted.

The woman, with her flowing bronze tinged hair and wide eyes, and large smile: a youthful, hopeful version of the woman who still haunted his dreams in his darkest nights, the mother that had left him this fate. And the man, a receding mop of ruffled hair curling around a face that looked oh so familiar now…

His stomach churned, heaving and squeezing, and he clutched at the bandages still tight around his torso. He pressed his lips together, and he felt the rising blush fill his entire face; a blush of embarrassed anger.

Anger at the world.

Anger at himself.

Anger at that damn police officer.

Anger at Burt.

And Burt coughed uncomfortably before saying the unneeded words.

"Kurt," He was clearly so scared. Kurt would have felt sorry for him if he had the compassion to. "I'm your dad, Kurt. It's me."

Kurt tightened his weak fists by his sides, and when Burt reached out a hand he leaned back, a frown pulling his entire face like gravity to the ground. His voice was hard and cold as he spoke the one word that filled his blurred, betrayed mind.

"_No_!"

**glee**

Carole tried her best to go about her day without worrying.

It was a hard feat.

Puck and Finn had compiled a list of all the things they deemed it necessary to find out about their new brother as soon as possible after retreating to their bedroom the previous night, and they had presented it to her over breakfast the following morning. She had glanced distractedly down the list, noticing with despair the mention of favourite X-Box games and which position he played in football. It was over fifty points long, and she found herself wondering why they couldn't put the same level of effort into their schoolwork.

She'd nodded at it without really reading, and without daring to burst the bubble of excitement they were regarding this new brother with.

And though the day that followed was busy, it just wasn't busy enough to keep her happy.

Finn had wanted to get dropped off at Rachel's, and she'd had to take Puck to the garage to cover Burt's shift for him, because one of the guys had called in sick, and Puck had offered to help out.

And then it had been straight to the hospital for her shift.

She felt strangely vulnerable without her phone in her pocket, able to check it every five minutes, waiting for Burt to call, or at least text.

Waiting…waiting…waiting.

She kept to herself whenever possible, hoping her boys were alright.

Hoping her husband was alright.

She had thrown herself straight into her work, and for a while it had helped.

She successfully distracted herself as she coaxed old Mrs Heatherton to eat a little more lunch; she successfully distracted herself as she calmed down a hysterical little Ronnie Coleman, who had woken up from a nightmare with no tonsils and no parents to comfort him. She successfully distracted herself as she replaced an empty bag of A positive blood for the young man who had been brought in the night before, after being pulled from the wreckage of his motorbike _hours_ after he crashed into a muddy ditch - she tried her best not to see her sons' faces in his place as she looked him over, _Adamson, Samuel_, his chart said; she reminded herself (and thanked her stars for it) that Noah hadn't ridden his motorbike in months, and that Finn had sworn to keep clear of those _death traps_.

But it just wasn't enough.

Because her thoughts still leapt back to Burt at every silent moment, every peaceful pause.

Finally, _finally._

She was halfway through her shift when her frantic scurried thoughts climaxed at the call of her name from Shelley, a receptionist she'd enjoyed more than one lunch with over the years, telling her that Burt had called, and she was needed.

Doctor Syle, standing at her side, had understood her desperation, despite not knowing quite what was wrong, and had nodded her away with a gentle smile of encouragement.

And Carole had raced to the phone with all the reluctant eagerness her tense muscles could muster…

"Hello?" she breathed into the phone. The breathy non-reply worried her, but she waited until Burt had gulped twice, and then…

"_Carole_." It was no more than a whimper of her name, and immediately the woman's mind turned to the worst. Tears pooled in her eyes, after hiding behind her eyelids all day. She refused to let them fall, though.

"Sweetheart?" she prompted. "Did you…is he…"

How was she supposed to phrase it?

She had no idea.

"_Yes_," Burt choked on his reply, and Carole choked on her gasping breath. It wasn't a surprise, the odds were so steep, after all…but now it was _real_, _official_. Burt had another son.

_She _had another son, Carole couldn't help but think with a tug of her tender heartstrings.

She waited for Burt to continue, knowing it would be wrong of her to press him when he was so clearly swallowing his heartbreak with every breath.

But heartbreak at _what_, exactly? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"_His name's K-Kurt_," Burt hummed without breath.

A fitting name, Carole thought to herself with a cynical smile that even she could tell didn't suit her. But she could forgive herself - it was hard listening to her husband fall apart, stuck without her, in another city, in another _state_, with her powerless to it all.

"_It was a cocaine o…overdose. Had to get his-s-stomach fixed. Be bet-ter soon_."

He was so clearly not holding it together, but neither husband nor wife acknowledged it.

"_I told him_," Burt announced, sounding small and cold. "_About me, being his…his dad_."

This time he didn't continue, didn't even seem to breathe. So Carole pushed just a little.

"How did he take it?"

Not so much as a breath but a _shudder_ found itself through the line, paining Carole to hear.

"_Before…he told me everything. Well…n…not everything, but a lot. He told me a lot. He was alm…almost comfortable, y-you know? But then I t-told him, and he just…"_

Agonised silence again.

"He just what, sweetheart?" Carole asked softly, rubbing at her top lip with her finger and squeezing her eyes shut, imagining Burt to be doing the exact same in New York, on the other end of the phone.

"_Just shut down. He won't talk to anyone…he won't even look at me any-anymore._"

At least the broken edge to his voice was explained, then.

"Sweetheart, he's…" Carole faltered. She could hardly speak forthe boy; not even Burt had a right to that, and _he _had at least met him. "He's adjusting to the news. This is a huge deal for him."

"_No, Carole, it's not…it's not like that. He's…_gone._ Completely gone._ _He was barely there before, and now he's gone. And I have to force him back home with me, whether he wants to come or not_-"

"You're coming home!" Carole cried. So soon? It couldn't be possible…

"_Not yet, but…yeah, he's coming home with me. Eventually."_

Carole felt her heart gave another stutter.

The questions were burning her tongue, but she wasn't sure if Burt could take them. Tentatively, she sighed the first thing to leap to her lips.

"Burt, sweetheart…what happened?"

It was Burt's time to sigh, but it sounded closer to a groan.

"_It's…it's awful, Carole. I just…I don't know where to start._"

Carole wanted to glance at the clock, knew she should stop, and wrap up their conversation, and get back to work.

She swallowed her work ethic obligations down, choosing instead to address her love for her husband, and her hatred of his pain.

"Tell me, sweetheart," she murmured quietly into the receiver. "I'm here, tell me. I'll listen."

**glee**

Kurt lay flat in his bed, his pillows discarded and the covers pulled up tight to his throat.

He was dry of tears, empty of pain. Numb all over once more. Not even the craving so strong it was a physical presence surrounding him could shake his stillness, like pale, calm death. Because one concern alone was beating a tattoo into his skull, burning him like nothing had ever burned before.

Burt Hummel, his father.

His _father_.

Before he had been a man to talk to, and never see again.

But now he was his _father_, and that _meant something_.

And the fact that it meant something _hurt_.

Because it was ok to admit his failures to a stranger, not caring if the stranger judged him or not. But now Burt was a father to him, and Kurt realised one painful fact over and over and over again.

Burt Hummel must be so _disappointed_. Waiting seventeen years for a son, only to find _this, him, _a pathetic lump of toxic waste deserving of nothing but to be buried deep underground. He'd even _cried _in front of this man.

Drug addict.

Failure.

Waste of space.

_Whore_.

How could he look that man, that _father_, in the eye again?

He was humiliated, and one thing was clear.

Burt Hummel would never want him for a son. Not now he knew the truth. Not when he'd seen him cry like a whimpering child; pathetic, useless.

And Porcelain had never hated his life more than in that moment - not even as he itched for cocaine when he knew it would kill him one day, or as he stalked the streets looking for sick horny bastards to be molested by; not as he took his cut of the money from Spike, or as blood pooled in his trousers all day after a particularly rough night; _never_.

Burt Hummel would never, _could never_, want him for a son.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: As A God**

**Summary: 18 years ago, Burt Hummel's girlfriend disappeared. He spent months desperately searching, but eventually he had to accept Kathy was gone. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, Finn, and even Finn's best friend. But then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old admitted to hospital for a drug overdose and carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? There's only one way to find out.**

**Warnings: Right, this is a long one. Violence, substance abuse, sexual violence, prostitution (including underage), swearing, 'phobic slander, angsty goodness, self harm, suicidal thoughts (possibly acts)…yeah, this will be quite dark at times, at least, the themes will be.**

**Thank you again and again for your incredible reviews - they make me all warm and fuzzy inside. Notable thanks to Kyle for his support and nagging. I'm sorry, this chapter's a bit strange. I couldn't think how to write it…it's been deleted and rewritten a good three or four times, so I'm posting it before I delete it all over again.**

**The purely dialogue scenes (there are two of them…you'll see) are, as you'll see (but just in case you don't) between Kurt and a clinical psychologist/therapist. Please review, and tell me what you think. There might be more chapters like this in the future, I'm not sure yet. My aim is 1 or 2 more chapters, and then they'll get back to Lima :) Until soon, my pretties!**

**-Stormy Sally xx**

(chapter four)

_To you, your father should be __**as a god**__;  
>One that compos'd your beauties, yea, and one<br>To whom you are but as a form in wax  
>By him imprinted, and within his power<br>To leave the figure or disfigure it._  
><em><strong>A Midsummer Night's Dream<strong>_** (1.1.50-4)**

"How are you feeling, Kurt?"

_Top of the world, obviously._

"Kurt, I'm here to talk to you about how you're adjusting. I understand how frustrating hospitals can be, but it's necessary that you remain here for a little while longer. Do you understand?"

_You clearly don't understand frustration, else you wouldn't voluntarily have chosen a career working in a hospital. Asshole._

"That irritation you're feeling, Kurt? All that anger building up inside you? It's not just you - you understand that, right? You understand that you are experiencing withdrawal symptoms, don't you?"

_Oh, gee, really? I hadn't noticed. Better shoot me up some more before I go psycho on you, too._

"Actually, Kurt, psychosis isn't a symptom of cocaine withdrawal. Irritation and craving, they're both natural. You won't suffer many physical effects at all."

_Great, no vomiting. Guess that makes me _so _lucky, right?_

"I didn't say you were lucky, Kurt. I was just explaining-"

_Well, don't._

"Ok, Kurt, how about we try something else?"

_S'up to you._

"You haven't spoken to Burt in three days, Kurt. Can you tell me about that?"

…

"Talking about Burt makes you uncomfortable? Why is that, Kurt? Because he's your father?"

_He's not my father_.

"Yes, Kurt, he is."

_Well he can fuck off back to where he came from. I don't want him._

"Yes, Kurt, you do. You did so well, talking to him before. But after you found out who he really was, you just stopped talking. I'm trying to understand you, Kurt. Why would you trust a complete stranger, but not your father?"

_I don't want to talk about this. I don't want you to 'understand' me at all! Fuck off!_

"Hey now, calm down, Kurt. You'll rip your stitches again if you're not careful…what was that?"

_I said like you care_.

"Well, I do, Kurt-"

_Can you stop doing that?_

"Doing what, Kurt?"

_That! Jeez, I know my own name. You don't need to say it every three seconds._

"I'm sorry, Kurt. Does it make you uncomfortable? Me saying your name? Me _knowing _your name? Do you not like being called Kurt?"

_S'just a name, who cares? I don't care who I am._

"You don't care who you live as, Kurt? Or you don't care if you live or not?"

…

"I see."

_I'll bet you do._

"Kurt, I'm not going to get scared off by your sarcasm. Or your anger. You need to stop trying to push me away. I'm here to help you."

_I don't want help_.

"No, but you need it."

_I haven't needed help since I was eleven fucking-_

"You have, Kurt. You've just learned to live without it. You need to start trusting people again, ok?"

_Again?_

"Well, you need to learn, at any rate…don't laugh, Kurt. If you're going to go home with Burt, then-"

_Hey! I did not agree to that!_

"Kurt, as your legal guardian, Burt is entitled to-"

_What the fuck? This man waltzes into my life after seventeen fucking years of abandonment and you're just going to let him take me from my home?_

"Do you consider New York to be your home?"

_I don't want to talk about this._

"Was Blaine your home, Kurt?"

_Fuck you!_

"Anger isn't going to make this go away, Kurt. Now please, tell me, where is home?"

_It was Blaine, ok! You happy now? Blaine was my home. My home is dead. End of story. Thank you and good night._

"But if your home is dead, doesn't that mean you need a new home?"

_Get out._

"If Blaine was here right now, would he tell you to cling onto your, quite frankly, very tragic past, Kurt? Or would he tell you to take the beautiful opportunity Burt wants to grant you?"

_Blaine is dead, you dick. He isn't saying anything._

"But if he was-"

_The dead don't talk, ok? And if Blaine was here, I would still have my home, remember? Your theory is stupid. Pick a better one, Einstein._

"Alright, Kurt, alright. But I'm not going to forget about this. Ok, Kurt?"

_You're the boss. Just do me a favour and…back off, will you?_

"Like this?"

_A bit further…bit more…yeah, that's better._

"Do you feel ready to talk a bit more now, Kurt? Am I far enough away?

_You're still in the room, so not really, but you'll do. I guess._

"Well, Kurt? What are we going to talk about?"

**glee**

Three days.

It had been three days since Kurt had last uttered a single word to him, and the effects had long since started taking their toll on Burt Hummel.

He'd been (quite generously) put up in a relatively nice hotel until his new son was ready to be brought home, but at the rate they were going it would be _weeks _before Kurt was ready to leave. A therapist had finally been sent in - what they talked about Burt could only hazard a guess, and he was starting to go mad with the worry that tensed his shoulder muscles, threatening to break his collar bones under the concerning responsibility.

He rarely stayed in the hotel, though. He couldn't bear to stay idle.

So whenever he wasn't letting the wash of sterility and patronising doctors' voices drive him to insanity, or restlessly almost-sleeping in a plush-pillowed hotel bed, he found himself walking around the nearby streets of New York.

He allowed himself to get lost in the busy streets, let his thoughts be overrun by the million conversations surrounding him - let them fill his head, because anything was better than the hateful pain of his uselessness every time an image of Kurt sprang to mind.

And the miracle city of New York distracted him from his life - if only for minutes at a time, if only second by second.

It was blissful.

He disappeared into the crowds, and he realised that every single person that passed him by, every pair of eyes that noticed him, would never know what he was going through.

All the hundreds (thousands?) of people who saw him in the crowds would think he was a tourist, or a visitor, or a native. And none of them would know that his life was in turmoil; by glimpsing him on the pavement they would be none the wiser about the agony he was harbouring.

He people-watched.

He sat on benches, stood outside shops, waited in lines; and he people-watched.

And one time, late at night, he saw a girl, no older than fifteen, curled at the dark mouth of an alleyway, her skirt around her waist and her tiny breasts bursting out of her leather top, watching him with wide tempting eyes and a sinful mouth that opened to let her panting escape her weak lungs.

He dropped a fifty dollar bill in her lap and moved swiftly on. And afterwards he thought about the little information that Kurt had told him, and he wondered if the girl would keep it, or if the bastard who put her there in the first place would take it from her.

He shivered, and he couldn't blame the nonexistent chill in the air around him for his soul deep shudder.

But it made him feel better to think of that girl sinking her stained teeth into a meaty burger, adding a little fat to her skeletal figure; or huddled over a steaming cup of chocolate, brittle hands clutching at the hot cardboard as tightly as she'd snatched at the money he'd dropped for her.

He thought about her as he sat outside Kurt's room in the hospital. He wondered where she was, and if she'd spent that fifty dollars.

But most of all, he wondered if anybody had ever done that for his son, over the years. If ever a kind soul had thought to spare a little something from their wallet or purse.

He hoped so.

He couldn't remember ever hoping for something more in his life than he hoped for that.

And on the third day of no contact with his son, the therapist called to arrange a meeting after Kurt's first appointment.

They met in the therapist's office. Burt was supplied with coffee and biscuits, pampered to the point of paranoia before finally sitting down with the man - Doctor Richard Bramsby - in the early evening, barely three hours after Kurt's session had finished.

"I would have wanted to get to him sooner, given the circumstances," Doctor Bramsby (_call me Richard, please) _said over the rim of his own white china cup of coffee. "But I understand it's a tricky business. The police are yet to get a full statement out of him, and with the nature of your relationship to him, Mr Hummel, I also understand you also wish to build a relationship with him."

Richard Bramsby spoke with a surprising lack of condescension, Burt was glad to hear. His hard gaze was grounding and full of measured understanding that was not standoffish and yet not invasive, either.

And like Sergeant Justin McDonnell, there was an air of sincerity to the way he spoke about Kurt that soothed Burt's fretful mind.

"Thank you, I appreciate it," Burt mumbled, unsure of how to respond. "And it's Burt, by the way."

"Well, Burt," Richard pressed. Clearly, Burt was relieved to see, Richard was not a man to mince words. "Naturally I cannot reveal many particulars about my discussions with Kurt, he spoke to me in confidence. But I wanted to talk to you about your intention to take him with you back to…"

"Lima," Burt nodded, his hands shaking around his cup, "Ohio."

"To put it plainly, Burt, your son has shown a great reluctance for you to be a part of his life."

Burt wasn't sure whether to shout, cry, or punch his son's therapist in the face.

"What?" he asked coldly, after three short breaths and a quick lick of the lips. He shifted uncomfortably on the smooth reddish brown leather of the chair he was seated upon; it squeaked and groaned loudly.

"He hasn't said anything to me explicitly, but I have my suspicions about why he's been so closed off ever since the…revelation."

There was a clinical smoothness to his voice, clean as sterilised operation utensils that Burt trusted, but could not say he _liked_ very much.

"Oh yeah?"

"Burt, if I may be so bold, I would say…" Richard looked not so much lost for words as concerned about how exactly his words would be met. "Your son has a lot of pride, Burt. I'd say perhaps it's a nature over nurture trait, as from our brief conversations so far I can definitely see a resemblance between yourself and him."

Burt wasn't sure whether or not this was a good thing, so he shifted again, wincing at the loud belch of the leather beneath him.

"I know it's not a very good example, but imagine you were a terrible singer, and you were told you were going to have to sing an entire song in front of a group of people. Would you rather sing it in front of strangers, whose opinion of you matters so little, or in front of all your friends, whom you love and cherish?"

Burt frowned, scratching at his cup, the coffee inside it forgotten.

"You're saying Kurt's…he's embarrassed?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Burt. It's my theory, at least." Richard took another sip of his drink, and placed his cup onto a coaster with a steady hand that Burt envied dearly. "I think that when Kurt was telling you about himself, he was getting a load off his chest that has been burdening him for a long time. But he didn't realise that the man he was spilling all his secrets to was the man who was going to be taking care of him once he gathered together some semblance of a new life. Because, like the terrible singer in front of the strangers, he didn't care about your opinion before."

"But now he does?" Burt concluded, and Richard nodded gravely, resting his fingertips against his left temple and tapping his desk absently. "But…surely if he cares, that's a good thing, right? That means we stand a chance, doesn't it?" Burt was leaning over the desk, straining against the social etiquette that kept him from running around the oak desk to the man and shaking him for answers.

Richard breathed evenly, calmly. "Burt, it _is _a good thing. But that doesn't make it much easier to get through to him. If anything, it may make your job ever harder."

Burt sat back in his seat, not even caring this time as the leather squeaked around him. His hands fisted around his cup, and a look of steely determination glazed his eyes.

"What do I have to do?"

**glee**

"So Kurt, how are you feeling today?"

_Wonderful. Marvellous. Incredible. Spectacular. Amazing. Brilliant. Fantastic._

"Ok. Thank you for that. Now, how are you actually feeling?"

_I told you. Spectacular. Marvellous. Brillia-_

"Kurt, please. Are you feeling better? They've lowered your medication today, I see. Has the pain lessened?"

…

"Kurt. How is the p-"

_It's fine, ok? Jeez. Give it a rest._

"Ok. That's ok, Kurt. I'm glad you're recovering well."

_Hmm._

"You still haven't spoken to Burt, though."

_Mmm._

"I thought we talked about this yesterday?"

_Maybe I'm tired of talking._

"We've got a long way to go, Kurt."

_Oh how wonderful._

"We talked about your sarcasm, too."

_Yes-sir we did._

"Kurt!"

_Fuck you._

"Kurt, please. I wanted to talk to you some more about going back home with Burt. Like I mentioned yesterday. Remember?"

_I do indeed_.

"Have you thought any more about what I said to you?"

_You mean the bull you spewed and somehow tried to convince me that leaving New York, where I've lived my whole life, will help me?_

"It wasn't _bull_, Kurt. We talked about Blaine, too, remem-"

_What are they doing with him?_

"I…excuse me?"

_Where. Is his…body?_

"Kurt, I don't think we should be-"

_Just tell me. Please._

"I…Kurt, hey, come on. Kurt, don't…"

_I hate this fucking place so much! I hate you! Get out! Get the fuck out!_

"Kurt, calm down! Kurt…"

…_I'm sorry. I just…I can't…I…_

"Ok, ok. Calm down. There you go, see? Careful, your stitches are still tender. Alright?"

_Mhmm._

"Kurt, do you mind if I move a bit closer?"

_Yes._

"Yes I can move, or yes you do mind?"

_Yes. I mind_.

"Alright. I'll stay here. Kurt? Kurt, look at me. Look at me, Kurt. _Kurt_."

_What?_

"Blaine's parents were contacted to identify him."

_Oh_.

"They've taken his body back to Chicago to be buried there."

…

"Kurt?

_Oh._

"Kurt? Are you alright?"

_Mmm._

"Are we ok to continue, Kurt?"

_Whatever you like._

"The doctors say you'll be ready to be released in a week, granted you give your full police statement by then. What do you think?"

_Where's Sadie?_

"Where's…?"

_Sadie. Where is she?_

"She's still here."

_Can I see her?_

"Not until you've given your statement, Kurt. You know that. Do you think you will be able to do it today?"

_Do I…_

"Yes, Kurt. You have to. They need you to."

_Oh._

"And after that, we'd have to talk about you going to live with Burt."

_Where?_

"Where…with Burt? He lives in Ohio. In a town called Lima…don't look at me like that, Kurt."

_Like what?_

"Like I just told you I'm relocating you to the dark side of the moon."

_Aren't you, though? I mean, what the hell?_

"That was a quick change of humour, Kurt. I'm glad to see it."

_Yeah, whatever._

"Will you think about it, Kurt?"

_If I don't?_

"Kurt, if you don't go live with Burt…do you know where they'd take you?"

_No._

"You'd be put into a rehabilitation clinic. And then as long as you were ready by your eighteenth birthday, when you became a legal adult you would be on your own. You understand that? But if you went to live with your father-"

_Huh-_

"With _Burt_…If you went to live with Burt, you'd have a family. He has a family, you know? Or did you not get that far before you decided to stop talking?"

_Fuck you._

"I see. So, you're going to think about it, then?"

_I guess I have no choice, do I?_

You always have a choice, Kurt.

_That's what he said, too._

**glee**

"And, of course, Kurt will need to be provided with good quality care throughout his recovery in the following months. That will include hospital visits, a therapist to take over my job…"

Burt nodded his lip against his coffee cup. It was his second visit to Doctor Bramsby's office in two days, and this one was looking to be far more hopeful than his first. A gentle smile had been playing on his lips ever since Richard told him of Kurt's agreement to think more seriously about moving to Lima.

"My wife's a nurse," he explained, which in turn conjured an encouraging smile from Richard Bramsby, too. It faltered, however, and Burt frowned. "Is there something else?"

Richard's lips twisted around his words, and he shuffled some papers edgily around his desk.

"What about education?"

Burt exhaled; he hadn't even thought about the logistics of sending Kurt to McKinley.

"There's a high school my stepson goes to. It's pretty decent. What about it?"

Burt tugged at his collar under Richard's piercing stare. The overheated room, full of dark furniture, was starting to feel crowded. Burt placed his shaky cup of coffee on the desk, clicking his tongue a few times uncomfortably.

"Burt, Kurt's grown up in a slum of drug addicts, criminals, prostitutes… The likelihood of him having anything more than an incredibly basic ability to read and write is very small. I wouldn't be surprised if any semblance of counting ability he has comes from adding up the dollars he earned on the streets." Richard licked his lips and hummed a cough.

Burt brought a hand to his face, rubbing it over his stubble roughly and smacking his lips together in a sigh. That was _definitely _something he hadn't considered.

And he couldn't hide his shock.

This seemed to show quite plainly on his face. Richard leaned forwards slightly, his stomach pressing lightly against the side of the desk. His earnest expression did nothing to better the situation, but Burt felt just a little calmer to see the dedication this man had for his son. It was a comfort to know that other people cared. That there were other people on his side, too.

"It will be fine, Burt," Richard nodded gently. "We'll manage. Kurt will get there. It will just take time."

Burt nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Time. Hmm. Yeah…just time."

He couldn't rid himself of the burning question, though; the one that sizzled his tongue, scorched his throat.

_How much time?_

To which, of course, there could be no answer.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: As A God**

**Summary: 18 years ago, Burt Hummel's girlfriend disappeared. He spent months desperately searching, but eventually he had to accept Kathy was gone. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, Finn, and even Finn's best friend. But then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old admitted to hospital for a drug overdose and carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? There's only one way to find out.**

**Warnings: Right, this is a long one. Violence, substance abuse, sexual violence, prostitution (including underage), swearing, 'phobic slander, angsty goodness, self harm, suicidal thoughts (possibly acts)…yeah, this will be quite dark at times, at least, the themes will be.**

**Thank you so much for your kind support! I've been feeling kind of angsty lately, so this is pretty much ENTIRELY flashbacks. They are random things I wanted to add into the story but had no real place…hopefully you'll be able to guess which ones are about Blaine - I don't mention him by name in all of them. (HINT - one more than half of them are Blaine) Some are happier than others, I'm pleased to say. The lines that break each one up, for those who get confused, are questions from Kurt's police statement. The flashbacks are _not _relevent to the individual questions.**

**Also, an extra warning for this chapter is there is an implied abortion. I'm a pro-choice supporter, but I understand some people may be offended by this. Please understand I mean it as a happening in the real world, and not a dig at people's religious/moral views.**

**And apologies for the million typos you'll probably find. I tried my best, but it's been a long, tiring day.**

**-SallyStorm xx**

**Over and out.**

(chapter five)

_To you, your father should be __**as a god**__;  
>One that compos'd your beauties, yea, and one<br>To whom you are but as a form in wax  
>By him imprinted, and within his power<br>To leave the figure or disfigure it._  
><em><strong>A Midsummer Night's Dream<strong>_** (1.1.50-4)**

_The second time you meet him, you repay your debt._

_His semi-smart attire is ruffled, as if he's seen a few doorways since your last meeting. He's perched on a park bench with his head in his hands, and you don't notice him as you let yourself be dragged roughly into a clump of trees._

_You don't notice him with his back to you, barely three metres away. You don't notice him as your bare knees hit the ground along with the man's trousers. You just open your mouth, loosen your throat, and swallow your gag reflex._

_You don't notice him as your own shorts are pulled to your ankles, and you're pushed against a tree and taken from behind, your face scraping against the bark in time with the man's breathy moans of pleasure._

_You only notice him once the man is gone. You notice him when you're alone, shorts eased over aching thighs as you scowl and a trickle of blood oozes from the scuff marks on your cheek, bits of bark stuck deep into your skin. You notice he's turned around and is watching you._

_You notice the melancholy recognition in his eyes, though it's been months since he bought you to sleep beside for a hundred bucks._

_You think about snapping a witty reply to his stare, but then you take in his scruffy appearance. Guilt burns those hundred dollars deeper into your memory._

_You walk away, fiddling for the money in your back pocket. You'll have to work extra to make up for it to keep Spike happy, but the satisfaction of paying off the debt will be worth it._

_You buy two coffees and a doughnut. You walk back to him, sit by his side, and hand over a coffee._

_In his incredulity he takes it, and accepts the half a doughnut you offer him. You eat and drink in silence._

_His hazel eyes sparkle with the gratitude lodged in his throat._

_He touches the side of your face and inspects the blood that transfers to his shaky fingers. He pulls out a dusty, semi-clean handkerchief and wipes away the crimson dribbles. You don't smile, and neither does he. You just sit there, drinking coffee, until the promise of dawn forces you to get up and saunter away, looking for any last straggling customers._

_You don't look back, but his eyes follow you._

_He'll find you again in three weeks, and he'll use all the last of his money to buy you, because if you're desperate to stay in Spike's good books. You'll take him to a room and he'll take you between your willing legs, which nobody has ever done before. And this time you won't try get up once it's over. You'll let him fold you into his chest and stroke the small scab of your cheek, still just about visible, though the tree bark has been washed away. You'll even let him kiss it better._

_But for now you walk away. The debt repaid._

**glee**

"Now, Kurt, are you ready to begin? We'll start off easy, ok? Can you tell me how old you were when you first heard the name Dean Leroy Malone?"

**glee**

_You're too cold to blush with embarrassment whenever somebody catches your eye, disgust evident in their sneering expressions. You don't care that the _tap tap tap _of fancy shoes judge you, or the nightly mumbles of New York City sing hatred of you._

_You lost a fifty somewhere between clients last night._

_You're paying for it today with broken ribs. (Not the face…too pretty…don't spoil the face.) You're paying for it today with angry red lines across your aching back that are bruising nicely. (Old whip, Spike's newest form of entertainment - more fun than cigarette burns, apparently._

_And now you're mucky on the floor; scuffed and dirty Porcelain - grubby and chipped porcelain._

_You stare with bloodshot eyes and a damp upper lip, muscles that twitch with exhaustion and brittle fingers that shake. You haven't seen food that isn't rice in a week. you want to cry, but the dehydrated throb of your head withholds all nonexistent tears._

_You lick cracked lips with a dry tongue that tickles furry in your mouth._

_You blink with crispy eyelashes that scratch your sore eyelids._

_And you stare at a pair of feet that stop sharply in front of you. They're fancy shoes. Black and sleek and shiny, with pointed heels and rounded toes and neat buckle straps. Inside them are feet wrapped in silk stocking that flow smooth up tan legs. A tight pencil skirt. Tucked in white blouse. Form-fitting, two-button blazer. Glittery simple necklace that matches the glittery simple earrings and glittery simple bracelet. Designer glasses with blue frames. Auburn hair that's washed and curled and fluffed. Fox face with pinched lips and eyes framed with makeup._

_Suddenly a kind smile. Probably pitying - you hate pity, know you should reject it - but kind, nonetheless._

_Drop the case of folders, all colour-coded and ordered. Root in the Prada handbag, pull out a Prada purse. Bend just a little to drop a scattering of ten dollar bills. Then drop the sympathy smile. Back to business-woman smirk._

_She's gone in twenty seconds. Less, maybe._

_And you can scarcely believe it, even as you collect the notes; even as you scramble to your feet weakly. And strut with only a tiny limp down the street in excitement. And hand over a proud ten dollar bill; cup your fingers around the change; bite hard and satisfied into a burger, suck and slurp at a cola and then a hot chocolate._

_You'll never know her name, but you'll never forget her face._

**glee**

"This Spike…that's one of Malone's men, right? His real name is Henry Micks. He was brought to us two days ago."

**glee**

_It's a regular thing now. You buy him coffee and he buys you._

_He's been getting money singing at a bar and busking. No matter how bad it gets, he'll never sell his guitar. He sleeps in your flat when he has nowhere else to go._

_He tells you about his work and you tell him about your mother. You never swap. He doesn't talk about his family. You don't talk about your job._

_And one time, you get home at three in the morning, tears streaming down your face because all you want is a fix. You just want to make life go away for while. But you don't have two cents to rub together until Spike gives you your cut in three days._

_He's feeling the strain, too, but he pushes you face down on the bed. For a moment you're terrified._

_Then his thumbs work magic over your body._

_He loosens your back muscles and tenderly massages your bruising thighs. He presses ghostly kisses over every blemish on your porcelain skin. He calls you sweetheart, like he sometimes does._

_And then the word breathes over your lips shyly. You finally tell him your name._

_He never calls you Porcelain again._

**glee**

"And it was Micks…err, Spike…that first gave you the cocaine, correct? …oh, alright then. So you only ever borrowed money from him? Did he know what you were using the money for? …I see."

**glee**

_Spike's mad, but thankfully not at you. You're still scared, though._

_You're in a room alone with him. He paces and you fidget._

_And next door you can hear Sadie screaming._

_She's begging the self-proclaimed doctor who's in there with her to stop. And she's begging for Spike to help her. For you to help her._

_Neither of you do._

_Because she can't have a baby. This is necessary. It's kinder, in the long run._

_You wonder how much of the concern Spike is showing is because he doesn't want to lose one of his best paid kids, and how much is spared for Sadie herself. Spike has a soft spot for her, you're sure of it._

_He wrings his hands and winces and she pleads and shrieks behind the locked door._

_This man is not a real doctor. You're sure of it._

_But what else can you do?_

_He'll do what Spike asked of him, and then he'll leave. You'll be stuck forever with the image you were presented with as you open the door once Sadie's screams finally subside - the grubby fingers, the rusty knife. Spike will work you mercilessly to gain enough money to bribe antibiotics out of a real doctor. Sadie will sleep at your place while she recovers._

_You'll never talk about it, though._

_And then Sadie gets better, and it's business as usual all over again._

**glee**

"I need a list of all the places you tended to go when you were on the streets, Kurt. We're going to make sure every kid like you is rounded up and taken somewhere safe. I promise. Can you tell me?"

**glee**

_You're feverous, and so is he. You wrap up together in several blankets. Hope the trapped heat of your bodies helps break the fevers sooner._

_Because you can't work if you're sick. Neither of you can. So you can't eat until you're well enough to hit the streets, and he's well enough to pick up his guitar again._

_It's so hot and stuffy and awful. You'd lean over to brush your lips against his cheek, relish the closeness, but it's too disgusting to think about. Even for you, with your back alleys and public parks and dirty rooms._

_It's so hot, and you realise as you drift between consciousness and daydreams that he is humming a gentle tune._

_Baby It's Cold Outside._

_He has an unusual sense of irony._

_But you join in anyway. You hum together, too ill to form the words with your dry mouths. You hum until your throats ache worse than ever. Then you hum some more._

_It's uncomfortable, and sore, and worrying. You've never felt more at home._

**glee**

"Are you sure you can't remember any more names? Just Spike? Surely you knew…I understand. If you think of any, just let me know, alright?"

**glee**

_You accidentally piss Spike off._

_He didn't do the usual, though. No shouting or beating or starving._

_He puts you in the game room._

_You're so small, the chains have to be readjusted, because it's designed for adults. Not kids._

_Sadie's been in the game room before. You're scared, because she hugs you when you tell her where you're about to go. Sadie never hugs people._

_They tie you in a cross shape in the middle of the room. Arms up and legs spread. Clothes are not necessary in the game room._

_And of course the prices rise tenfold, a hundredfold. Because you're young, and Spike can squeeze more money out of those who like them younger._

_There's no leeway. The chains are tight. They leave your ankles and wrists raw even as they click into place. You're completely exposed. Vulnerable._

_You shiver in cold fear._

_The first man is rough and merciless. He leaves you after twenty minutes with hips patterned with sausage finger bruises and blood trickling out of you, slippery between sweaty legs._

_The fifth is married. You can feel his wedding ring digging into your skin as he wraps his hands around your throat and pounds hard, panting in ecstasy._

_The seventh turn is two men. They untie your arms and bend you at the waist. They fill you between both sets of cheeks._

_The eleventh leaves flaming hand marks and streaked whip marks across your backside. He's angry you can't get it up for him. Somehow he thinks hitting harder will help. He smacks as he thrusts until you're sobbing into your shoulder and crying inwardly for a mother who's been dead for four years._

_By morning Spike is satisfied. Generous, even. He lets you sleep it off for twenty-six hours, right there curled on the floor of the game room._

_You'll wake up covered in sweat and blood and filth. And you'll be grateful for it._

**glee**

"It's ok, Kurt. You're ok to tell me everything. Nobody is going to harm you for telling the truth. You won't be in trouble. Not from me, or the police. Not from Malone, either…what was that? No, not from Spike, either."

**glee**

_He's skinny and mucky, but you feel safe in his presence. Blaine's presence._

_You've come home early, and you're shaking with fear. Because your last client's condom wasn't on properly. The spillage is still sticking to your skin, but you can't bear to move now you're lying on the mattress of your broken bed. You just cry and shake and sob and groan in tortured agony. Because who knows what diseases he might have given you._

_Maybe you've got aids, now. You've been so careful, and this man's ignorance might cost you your life. Whatever semblance of life this even is._

_But he calms you down. Blaine calms you. He peels away your clothes and you don't have the strength to blush at the intensity with which she inspects your nakedness._

_And suddenly there's only Blaine. Blaine's tongue sweeping over your battered skin. Blaine's mouth giving the loving attention your anatomy has never before been granted. He hums against you with the sincerity of a pious man singing his evening prayer. Worship._

_He doesn't even use a condom. He takes you and washes away the evidence of the man who had last pushed between those legs. And as ever Blaine faces you as he makes love to you. Never from behind. From behind was for customers._

_And you know with every fibre of yourself that this is making love. Because there are kisses instead of slaps. Sweet nothings instead of grunted insults. Slow and deep, not hard and fast._

_By the time he's finished, you've forgotten about all your fears. Because Blaine is with you, and that's all that matters._

**glee**

"And at a guess, how many people do you think were working for Spike?"

**glee**

_Sometimes the condom breaks._

_The first time it happens, your lips are sliding over the rubber, the blunt tip bruising the back of your throat._

_Split. Rip. Gush._

_Hot spurts spill down your throat, choking you. You don't expect it, no chance to swallow. It just keeps sliding slick as blood down your system. your empty stomach convulses, gag reflex retching._

_But he's still thrusting so hard tears are being squeezed from your red-rimmed eyes, streaking down your face. You're sobbing around this man's cock, but he doesn't care. _

_He screams his delight as you fail to scream your agony._

_And in the madness and the panic your teeth scrape lightly, just lightly, at his base._

_He pulls out of you faster than your hysterical gulps for air. He slaps you hard._

_You gasp for breath, but it's pushed out of you again when his knee meets your stomach_

_He's half naked, trousers around his ankles. He should be comical, but he's terrifying. He's red in the face, gripping his broken-rubber covered manhood and pointing at you._

_His words are as hard as his kicks._

_His big toe connects with your groin, and finally the remnants of his short-lived pleasure makes a reappearance. The sticky whiteness, off-colour with bile, splatters._

_You taste it on your tongue and you cry harder._

_He covers himself and leaves swiftly. You wait for Spike to turn up and take the money._

**glee**

"It's ok, Kurt. It's all over now. Well done, kid. Get some sleep. Then I think Doctor Bramsby wants to talk to you, ok? Ok, kid. You rest up now. I'll check on you tomorrow. I need to get this down to the station."

**glee**

_The last expression you ever see on his face is euphoria. Blissful, drug induced, anguishing euphoria._

_The chemicals spread like wildfire through his veins, and then yours. And you're too distant from the world to take the time to memorise the details of his face._

_How could you know this is your last chance to look across the lines that life has carved into his beauty? How could you know that you'll close your eyes to blink, just to blink, but they'll stay shut. You'll blink, but your eyes won't open again for hours._

_You'll blink, and you'll open your eyes to doctors and policemen and nurses. And Blaine Anderson will be dead._

_But you don't know that._

_So you just tense your arm around the puncture hole left by the needle. You smile lazily at the boy in front of you and the girl beside you._

_He catches your eye and nods._

_You laugh placidly._

_He leans forwards to capture your smiling lips with his puckered ones._

_You blink._

_And now he's gone._


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: As A God**

**Summary: 18 years ago, Burt Hummel's girlfriend disappeared. He spent months desperately searching, but eventually he had to accept Kathy was gone. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, Finn, and even Finn's best friend. But then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old admitted to hospital for a drug overdose and carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? There's only one way to find out.**

**Warnings: Right, this is a long one. Violence, substance abuse, sexual violence, prostitution (including underage), swearing, 'phobic slander, angsty goodness, self harm, suicidal thoughts (possibly acts)…yeah, this will be quite dark at times, at least, the themes will be.**

**PLEASE READ: Hello, Kyle here! For those don't know, I'm Sally's flatmate/co-author/best-friend. Sally apologises for not updating, but her dad has broken his leg really badly and struggles with mobility as it is, so she's running between work and her parents trying to help out. Because of this, she left some detailed instructions on several things, including how to write Chapter Seven of her story. You'll notice this probably isn't as depressing at it usually is, because while Sally is a sadistic angsty evil woman, I can't bear to be THAT mean… I hope it's still enjoyable for you all, though, and hopefully Sally will be able to write the next update (so back to the heartache awful agony...yaaaay). (Apologies for mistakes! I tried to keep it as close to Sally's style as possible...and sorry for it being so short!)**

**-Kyle**

**Over and out.**

(chapter six)

_To you, your father should be __**as a god**__;  
>One that compos'd your beauties, yea, and one<br>To whom you are but as a form in wax  
>By him imprinted, and within his power<br>To leave the figure or disfigure it._  
><em><strong>A Midsummer Night's Dream<strong>_** (1.1.50-4)**

"Mr. Hummel, are you aware of the implications of taking Kurt home so soon?"

Burt had only spoken to Nurse Earnshaw a handful of times. She was a softly spoken woman with a slightly rounded figure, and plump cheeks dented with natural dimples. They were sitting in Kurt's hospital room, but the occupant was not participating in the conversation. After yet another twelve hours of night-terrors, the boy had been sent to a dreamless sleep with a swift dosage of medication.

It was the first time Burt had seen his son since Kurt had found out about the true nature of their relationship, five days ago. Since then Kurt had had three visits from Doctor Bramsby, a minor exploratory surgery after coughing up blood that had resulted in having to redo some stitching, an episode of dehydration after ripping out his IV drip, almost four panic attacks (three and a half, Nurse Earnshaw had insisted) and somewhere in between had even given his police statement.

His frame, though still worrying brittle looking, was a little fuller, and there was a definite colour in his face that hadn't been there that first night. Though small, the changes were startling, and Burt had felt a flutter of pride and relief when he set eyes on his son.

"What do you mean?" Burt asked. Nurse Earnshaw tapped her pen against her clipboard thoughtfully.

"Well, in summary," she began, clasping her hands neatly, the pen trapped between her fingers.

She glanced quickly between sleeping son and anxious father.

"Kurt will need constant surveillance for some time. He's shown signs of clinical depression, something that will need to be looked into further by a psychologist back in Lima, whom Kurt will need regular appointments with.

"He'll also need to have his injuries and stitches checked up on by a qualified nurse, and preferably one who can also help with his withdrawal. The hospital has flushed his system clean, but drug withdrawal of any kind is a long process. He'll be feeling the after-effects for a long while yet. And his education will need arranging. His literacy and numeracy skills are frighteningly basic, so I would suggest a tutor who could also watch over him whilst you and your wife are at work.

"He'll need his home to be a strong base. A safe haven. This is a huge change for Kurt. You have a stepson, correct? He should probably be as fully informed as possible, for Kurt's safety and well-being, if nothing else. We can't be sure of all Kurt's triggers yet; it wouldn't do for your stepson to unknowingly push a boundary that nobody knew existed. Or your wife, or yourself, for that matter. This is going to be a hard process."

She smiled sympathetically at Burt, who, despite her clear sincerity, looked uneasy as he fiddled with a loose thread in his shirt.

"I see," he hummed more to himself than the woman. "Well Carole, my wife…she's a nurse. That would help," he frowned thoughtfully in the direction of his son, eyeing the steady rise and fall of Kurt's chest.

"It would indeed," Nurse Earnshaw nodded enthusiastically.

"And we can get him a therapist, and a…a tutor?" he questioned dubiously, as if hoping the reply would change this time around.

The kindly woman, sensing his denial, nodded with empathy in her eyes.

"Have you talked to your stepson yet?" she pressed, seeing through Burt's nervous smile.

"Not yet, I…I don't really know what to tell him. Carole's just kept things as simple as possible."

Burt paused, sneaking a glance at the teenager in the bed. Blotchy skin and a face of false peacefulness in slumber. He clenched his fists into his jeans.

"Well," the nurse treaded lightly, "Maybe you should talk to Kurt about that? When he wakes up, you can tell him about your family. Ask him how comfortable he would be about his new stepbrother knowing about him, and then do what _he _wants. You need to prove to him that you can be trusted, Mr Hummel."

Chewing at his lip, Burt considered this. His eyes rested again on Kurt's face, and his heart ached at the thought of how long it would invariably take for the boy to trust him the same way Finn had trusted him now for years.

"I'll do that," he agreed with a stiff nod. "Yeah…I'll do that."

**glee**

_"Hello sweetheart, how are you? You didn't call last night. I was worried."_

"Carole…I'm sorry. I was so-"

_"It's ok. Don't worry, Burt. I understand."_

"God…"

_"Burt? Is everything ok? Are you coming home soon?"_

"Soon. Yeah, soon. He just…Kurt…"

_"What about Kurt, sweetheart?"_

"I'm talking to him today. He's asleep. Keeps having these nightmares. It's like he can't settle."

_"Oh, poor baby…"_

"They just keep drugging him, Carole. How is that doing him any good? How is that helping?"

_"I know it's hard…but sometimes it's not so much the _best _option, more the _only _option. He needs sleep, Burt, and if he's not sleeping well on his own-"_

"I know, I know. It's just so _hard_. I don't even know him yet. Not really…but that's my _son _in there. And I can't help him. I've never felt more useless in my whole life, Carole."

_"Burt, don't feel like that. You travelled all the way to New York to bring that boy home with you. That's a hell of a lot more than some would have done. Lots of people would have just let the police take him in and sort him out. You, though. You cared enough about a boy you don't know to leave your home behind and go fetch him. You aren't useless, sweetheart. You've never been useless."_

"Carole, how do you always know what to say?"

_"I know, makes it surprising I'm the mother of someone as clueless as Finn, right?"_

"Ha…thank you."

_"I haven't done anything yet, sweetheart."_

"You have. You've made me smile. And kept me sane."

_"That's as much for my benefit as yours, though. I cry when you cry, remember?"_

"I remember…"

_"…so you think you'll be home soon?"_

"Couple of days, tops, depending on how it goes this afternoon when I talk to him."

_"What will you need?"_

"Well he needs a qualified nurse to look after his injuries. I said you'd be fine to help with that-"

_"-of course-"_

"And he needs a therapist. And a tutor."

_" A tutor?"_

"Never went to school."

_"Oh…"_

"Yeah, _oh_. I never even thought about that kind of stuff. But it was obvious, once the therapist explained it."

_"Of course. That's understandable. I can look into things before you get home. What about Finn?"_

"Thanks, Carole. And don't tell Finn yet. I'll talk to Kurt today, find out if he wants his new brother knowing all about him or not."

_"That's reasonable."_

"Where's Mohawk?"

_"He's out with Finn. They're with their Glee Club, I think."_

"He still staying over?"

_"He has been doing. He brought Sarah around for dinner last night, too."_

"Everything ok?"

_"I have no idea, Burt. But Sarah looked happy enough last night."_

"Good…that's good. So I'll talk to you later tonight?"

_"Yes. Call soon, sweetheart. And…give him my love?"_

"…You, Mrs Hummel, are from another world."

_"Quite possibly. But do give him my love? If he'll have it?"_

"I will. I love you."

_"I love you, too."_

**glee**

Somehow, it was more awkward meeting him the second time around. Perhaps it was meeting him now that they were both fully aware of the true depth of their relationship, instead of confused uncertainties.

This was solid.

This was final.

This was real.

This was _it_.

Burt filled the silence for his own state of mind, if nothing else.

"So, pretty soon you're going to be coming home with me, Kurt."

Kurt was sitting upright, a mountain of pillows behind him for comfort. His hands were resting neatly on his stomach, and occasionally his toes would twitch nervously under the covers. His skin looked raw with bruises and grazes that seemed to be multiplying, as if the initial shock of meeting his biological son had blinded Burt to them at first. He saw them now, though. Purple and yellow finger marks, skinless scuffs of dark red and circular blotches where the point of a knuckle had dug in hard.

The teenager hummed scratchily.

"You ok with that?" Burt pushed gently, pulling his chair forward an inch or so towards the bed.

Kurt eyed him warily, making sure the man didn't come too close, before replying with a look that clearly stated _I have no choice in the matter_. Guilt flushed through Burt as he realised just how little control Kurt had over his own life. How little he'd probably _ever _had over his own life.

"I never told you about back home, did I?"

Kurt moved his head slightly in what Burt took to be a shake.

"It's a town called Lima. It's in Ohio." He was fairly certain Kurt had been given these formal details already, so he quickly skipped forwards. "I'm a mechanic," he explained. "I own a garage. Hummel's Tyres and Lube. That's the family name: Hummel."

He left the sentence hanging, because they both knew what he really meant. _That's __**your **__name; Kurt Hummel_. They left it unsaid.

"I've got a wife." His voice softened even further, hoping to break the news gently in case Kurt hadn't already been told. Kurt's expression didn't change, revealing nothing. "She's called Carole…she's a nurse. She can't wait to meet you."

This time Kurt's eyes flashed, and he blinked rapidly. Not for the first time, Burt gritted his teeth with irritation at not knowing how to read this boy, his son. He had no idea what all these little reactions _meant_. Was it good? Was it bad?

Surely _someone _understood him enough to explain these things?

He stopped his train of thought there, before he could wonder any further. Because of course one person would have been able to read him. But he couldn't ask _him _about that. Not anymore.

"She's got a son, my stepson. He's called Finn. He's about the same age as you…he's a senior in high school."

He paused again, because Kurt had sucked his lower lip between his teeth.

_What did that mean? _Was he holding back a smile? Was he holding back tears? Burt had no idea.

And that frightened him.

He watched as Kurt blinked repeatedly, long eyelashes fluttering. His teeth buried themselves into his lower lip, biting hard until Burt was worried he was going to break the skin. Alarmed, the father reacted the only way he knew how, and instinctively reached his hand towards the boy's.

"Hey, Kurt-"

The reaction was instant. As he leaned over Kurt turned to face him, wincing in pain but continuing to back away to the other edge of the mattress. His fingers bit into the pillow he placed cautiously between them, warning Burt away.

The older man stopped, and as the realisation of rejection washed over him he pulled back, sitting firmly in his chair once more. "I'm sorry," he choked.

One beat, a mere second of a pause.

"It's ok." That pale, gentle voice, fragile and frightened. And Burt felt blessed, because it was more than he had hoped for. Kurt could have shut down, ignored him, hidden under his covers. But no.

_It's ok._

He'd spoken, actually spoken, and amidst his frustration the older Hummel felt a rise of hope swell in his chest.

"You don't have to worry about Finn, he's a good kid."

Burt remembered being a teenager in high school, and a kid in his geography class missed several weeks of school after his drunk father beat him black and blue; Peter Clove, that was his name. He came back after three weeks, edgy and nervous, and one day Burt watched quietly to a teacher talk to him; the teacher made a sudden movement, and the kid flinched violently enough to nearly fall over. And the teacher, realising her mistake, had continued the conversation as if nothing had happened, because she knew Peter didn't want to focus on his fear, on the way he'd leapt back from a gentle young schoolteacher as if she was the school bully. He'd rather keep going as if nothing had happened.

Burt decided to do the same - keep going, keep talking, keep encouraging.

Kurt seemed to appreciate it.

"He's Quarterback on the football team, and he's got a girlfriend called Rachel. She's a nice girl. Bit loud, but she's interesting. You're never bored around her. They're in Glee Club together, all singing and stuff? Yeah, they really love it. Finn's best friend goes, too. They're all pretty good. Really good."

The word _singing _brought about a tilt of head, curious? Burt wondered if this was Kurt interested or rejecting the idea.

He couldn't wait for the day he would be able to read Kurt's every gesture.

"Finn's looking forward to meeting you," Burt added.

At this, Kurt turned his head abruptly, snapping it sideways to stare openly at the man. A true deer in headlights, and for once Kurt didn't try hide the fear in his expression.

"I wanted to talk to you about that," Burt continued in as calm a voice as he could manage. He pushed from this mind the urge to wrap his arms around the boy and squeeze tight, protective. "Finn doesn't know…anything, about this. I want you to know that I will tell him whatever you want me to tell him. I can tell him everything-" he took in the wide eyes, the frantic almost-shake of the head, and he knew that probably wasn't an option, "-or I can tell him some of the truth…or even none of it, if you want. Hell, I'll tell him you're Batman, if you like."

Kurt's expression softened, and his eyebrows twitched downwards in a frown, but it wasn't angry. More…confused. Torn between _be_musement and _a_musement. His lips twitched, and Burt liked to think it was the closest he'd come yet to making the kid smile.

"Ok," the boy breathed. He was still holding a pillow on the bed between himself and his father, but he shifted an inch or two closer, his posture relaxing.

"Ok?" Burt repeated, enthused by the response, as meagre as it was.

Kurt wetted his cracked lips with a pale tongue.

"Tell him…" he spoke softly, pausing to blush as if embarrassed at the thought of making demands.

"Yeah, kiddo?" Burt asked gently. He could see Kurt's discomfort, and he didn't want to push him too far, not now they were so close. "Whatever you want."

"Tell him…" Kurt tried again. He struggled for the words, frowning at the air, this time annoyed, as he either failed to think of what to say, or perhaps simply how to say it.

"How about this," Burt prodded, shifting in his chair but making sure it was clear he wasn't coming any closer. "I don't have to tell him about…about what that Malone guy made you do. Would that help?"

Beneath the bruises, Kurt was blushing scarlet, eyes trained to the ground in humiliation. He nodded silently, and Burt wondered to himself whether or not he had imagined boy's lips moving in a soundless gesture that looked uncannily like _thank you_.

"You don't have to worry, Kurt." Burt made sure his voice sounded as sincere and sure as possible. He wanted Kurt to trust him; he couldn't remember ever wanting anything so much in his whole life. "I promise, this is going to get better."

Finally, _finally_, Kurt looked up again, piercing glasz eyes met watery blue ones and held, quiet and contemplative, each lost in their own thoughts. Until Kurt swallowed slowly, and Burt pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, waiting eagerly for the boy to speak.

"When are we going?"

It was the most Kurt had spoken since Burt had entered the room, and possibly the loudest he'd spoken, too. Almost talking level, still breathy with a hint of a whisper, but solid enough. The man felt like rejoicing to the heavens.

"Well, we can go the day after tomorrow if that's ok with you? That's Monday, if you're wondering. Fourteenth of November."

He waited for the young man to take this in. He could see him trying to working something out, tapping his fingers in a deliberate counting rhythm. And then he mumbled something almost indistinguishable.

"_Nine days._"

Burt didn't ask what nine days meant. Because Burt had arrived in New York eight days ago, and nine days could only mean one thing. Right?

Nine days since Kurt overdosed.

Or perhaps nine days since he was freed of his hellish lifestyle?

Or perhaps something else.

Nine days since…Burt watched a tear drop squeeze its way out of the corner of Kurt's eye, cling precariously to an eyelash only to splash onto the pillow. Of course, what else?

Nine days since Blaine Anderson died.

Burt had known it was going to come up eventually. But he couldn't deny the fact he'd been dreading it. Fearing it, even.

Burt Hummel was no coward, he told himself sternly. He was going to face it head on, the only way he knew how.

"You know," he said slowly, cautiously, watching the quiver of Kurt's lips as he held in such overwhelming emotion that Burt was surprised such a slight figure was able to contain it all, "It's ok to grieve. It's always hard to lose people we love."

Kurt's eyes snapped upwards, wet and shiny with tears. He looked surprised, lips slightly parted and no longer trembling.

"Do you hate me?"

The question caught Burt off guard. He sat back in his chair appraisingly, wondering what other questions were hidden behind those cold eyes. Was this what the boy was afraid of?

Burt shook his head.

"No," he said with quiet insistence. "I don't hate you."

Kurt seemed to shrink a little, but the panic in his pale expression seemed to lessen somewhat. Burt took this as a good sign.

"That's good," Kurt mumbled, perhaps more to himself than to the room or the man beside him.

Burt couldn't help the grin that spread across his face, because it was such an innocent thing to say. And innocence was something this teenager, this boy, this _child_¸ was severely lacking. And Kurt, seeing his father's smile, let his twitching lips pull up, just a little at a time, until it was a half moon curl. A smile.

Burt let a soft chuckle, encouraging and honest, escape his throat, and Kurt's smile widened just a bit more. As if realising that maybe, quite possibly, one day, he would be able to laugh like that, too.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: As A God**

**Summary: 18 years ago, Burt Hummel's girlfriend disappeared. He spent months desperately searching, but eventually he had to accept Kathy was gone. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, Finn, and even Finn's best friend. But then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old admitted to hospital for a drug overdose and carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? There's only one way to find out.**

**Warnings: Right, this is a long one. Violence, substance abuse, sexual violence, prostitution (including underage), swearing, 'phobic slander, angsty goodness, self harm, suicidal thoughts (possibly acts)…yeah, this will be quite dark at times, at least, the themes will be.**

**Hey there guys! (And gals!) I'm so sorry I kind of abandoned this for a short while. Thank you so much for all your kind reviews, and a special mention to my darling Kyle for supplying the previous chapter. I hope you all liked it! This is kind of a bittersweet chapter really, and an ever so slight filler. Please let me know your thoughts!**

**Now, my plan is for the next chapter to see the Hummel-Hudson home preparing for the Hummels' homecoming, and then Kurt's actual arrival in Lima. However, if enough people actually want me to, I will write you Kurt and Burt's travel back to Ohio, too.**

**Love, SallyStorm xx**

**Over and out.**

(chapter seven)

_To you, your father should be __**as a god**__;  
>One that compos'd your beauties, yea, and one<br>To whom you are but as a form in wax  
>By him imprinted, and within his power<br>To leave the figure or disfigure it._  
><em><strong>A Midsummer Night's Dream<strong>_** (1.1.50-4)**

Wednesday the twelfth of October.

Exactly eighteen years prior, Burt Hummel had spent the day with his father.

They had played soccer, eaten sandwiches packed lovingly for them by Burt's mother, and Burt had been grateful. For almost ten hours, lost in the middle of a large field with only his father and a soccer ball for company, Burt had distracted himself from police reports and missing person signs and the never ending loop of _Kathy Kathy Kathy _that circled a constant around his head.

And now it was Wednesday the twelfth of October, and Burt Hummel realised that he really, _really _missed his father, who had died some seven years previously.

"All ready?" a sudden voice from beside Burt asked, and he flinched in his seat in Kurt's empty hospital room.

Sergeant Justin McDonnell had returned, too invested in the case to stay away until Kurt would-be-Hummel was safely out and away.

Burt grimaced, shuffling over a little as the younger man sat by his side.

"Hate waiting for stuff," Burt muttered into his clenched fists.

He hadn't been waiting long, but he'd never been famed for his patience.

"Where's the kid?" Justin asked coolly, a frown wrinkling his brow.

"Talking to his friend," Burt pointed in the vague direction of the door. "The girl?" He couldn't really remember, too focused on his own near future to recall the finer details.

"Sadie White?" Justin hummed, looking surprised.

"Waited long enough," Burt shrugged. "He's been asking to see her every day since he was brought here, apparently. Told him he could take as long as he wanted."

"That was good of you," the sergeant commented, and Burt raised his eyebrows, as if to ask what else he was supposed to have done. Deny the boy the chance to say goodbye to his only friend?

They fell to silence, respectfully averting their gazes.

Burt found himself memorising the room, though he was sure it would come back to haunt him when the memory of sickly pristine walls and the nauseating scent of hospital sterility overpowered his dreams in weeks to come. He took in the bed, recalled the blank expression with which Kurt had first regarded him upon arrival in New York. He recalled the racking sobs and uncontrollable tears.

He couldn't deny he was looking forward to leaving the claustrophobia of the hospital. He felt like he was drowning more and more with ever breath he took. Drowning in sullen, hospital memories that would not be wiped until they had turned their backs on New York City.

But there was something so comforting about it, too. The hospital had become almost a sanctuary.

It was safe. It was neutral.

"Your flight leaves at five o'clock," Justin reminded him abruptly, effectively ending his sombre reverie.

"Yeah," Burt mumbled, attempting a smile, but it twisted painfully on his face. "Thanks for that, by the way," he added as an afterthought.

"It shouldn't be crowded," the officer reassured him, "You'll have a decent amount of privacy. Should make it easier for you both."

Burt's throat was too choked to reply, so he nodded and tried to add a little sincerity to his attempt of a smile.

It had only come to his attention the day before that in addition to the many stressors surrounding Kurt's departure from New York, Kurt would never have before been in an aircraft.

Burt remembered being seventeen years old. How he'd been so excited, had bounced around in the car on the way to the airport, only to feel sick before the plane had even fully taken off. He'd spent their two week holiday in a Spanish resort alternating between enjoying himself and dreading the return journey.

He could only hope Kurt would be a better flyer than him.

"Hey, Burt?" Justin tapped the older man on the elbow to grab his attention.

"Yeah?" Burt coughed.

"I think there's one thing you need to do before you go…"

**glee**

They hadn't said a word as Kurt entered the room, trembling with fear and anticipation. He had simply rushed to the bed, albeit limping, but rushing nonetheless, straight into the girl's arms.

Sadie had been expecting him. She'd opened her arms to clutch the boy tightly to her chest, pulling him close as he inhaled her scent. She'd kissed his hair and squeezed him desperately and even as he whimpered under her fierce grip she refused to let go.

"_Porcelain, Porcelain, Porcelain_," she'd whispered into his hair as her tears dampened his scalp. They'd cried through the exhaustion and the pain and the grief. And her heart had broken for the boy in her arms over and over again as he'd wept into her chest.

_He's gone. He's gone. He's gone._

And she had replied with helpless agony.

_I know. I'm sorry. I know. I'm sorry._

And she was. She truly was sorry.

Sadie White had always been a survivor. And Sadie White had always been a mother hen.

At fourteen years old she had taken little Porcelain under her wing before any of the others could snatch him up and turn him into the unearthly altered almost-people like the other older boys and girls. She couldn't let the humanity abandon those bright glasz eyes.

Because Sadie White, Spike's little _Snow_, knew a lot of people, even at fourteen years of age. And she knew that most fell into two categories.

Snow wouldn't let Porcelain fall into either.

Porcelain would not fall into a pit of despair; forget he was a human being of flesh and blood and _worth_. Neither would Porcelain learn to love his life; forget he was more than a flexible doll in tight clothes.

Sadie had never given up on Porcelain, and as she held him close, whispered consolations into his ear from their burrowed hold in her hospital bed, she realised it had been worth it. That even as the boy cried until his body had nothing left to give, cried as if he would never stop, with a shattered heart and soul ripping him in two, it had been worth the effort.

Porcelain wasn't Porcelain. Not _really_. She could still see _Kurt _hidden behind his mask.

"I can't go, Snow," Kurt pined into the young woman's hospital gown. "I can't leave you."

"Yes you can," she retorted. "You can and you will. You hear me? Don't you _dare_ talk about staying here."

But Kurt only shook his head harder, pushed deeper into her sternum. "No, no, no, please no," he cried.

"Look at me," she commanded, reaching over to clasp his face in her hands, gripping harder as he flinched and struggled in terror. "No, look at me," she said sternly. He was terrified, wriggling an squirming, and more tears leaked from his eyes, but she held firm. "You have to get out of here. For yourself. For me. And for your mom. And for Blaine."

A particularly loud sob choked in Kurt's throat, but the woman shook her own head, scowling.

"No, you don't cry," and Kurt struggled to catch his breath. "You look at me and you nod. Ok? Nod."

Kurt nodded automatically, his cheeks and his upper lip and his forehead soaked as his eyes glistened.

"You are going to leave New York and you are going to live a beautifully _long _life."

She stated it with the same self-assured tone as a dictionary definition. It was a fact. Not a hope, or a dream, or even an assumption. It was a fact that this boy would live out a potential ten times greater than the one he had had two weeks ago.

"What about you?"

It was closer to a whisper, and Sadie's grim expression melted into a tender not-quite-smile.

"Well, I don't know," she replied honestly. "But I'll survive, ok? You know I'll survive."

She winked with a bravado that she was fairly certain the teenager could see through, but kept up the appearance anyway. She had a reputation to keep, after all.

"What if I need to talk to you?" Kurt asked timidly.

Sadie sighed, her breath washing over his face. His hair, matted with perspiration, rippled slightly.

"You're leaving New York behind, Porcelain. You're leaving this life behind. Which means-"

"No!" Kurt choked, holding her tighter and begging. But she pushed him away harshly, her own heart breaking again and again as the cold rejection pushed his shoulders into a slump and ripped another sob from his chest.

"_Which means_," she repeated, "You are leaving me behind, too."

The realisation of her own words shocked her.

Twenty-one and pushing away her only friend in the world, a seventeen year old boy with so much potential, so much life an love to give, it burst from him like scattered sunshine behind the cracks of his dusty blank mask. She could feel the weight of her own world weighing her down.

She knew this boy would make it.

But she also knew she could not be there to witness it. However he felt he needed her now, she knew her presence would eventually serve as nothing but a reminder of the life he should never have led.

"I am so proud of you," she said softly.

Her hands were vice grips on his shoulders, keeping him at half an arm's length away from her to stop him clinging to her again. It was getting harder and harder to refrain from embracing him once more, but her willpower won.

Kurt would not hug her again.

He cried shakily, tried to smile and ultimately failed. He squeezed her knee and she squeezed his shoulder.

"Go be somebody," she ordered, seeing before her not a seventeen year old youth in a hospital gown, but instead an eleven year old boy with tight clothes and wide eyes.

"I don't know how," he admitted, his entire frame shaking with fear.

The young woman didn't have the heart to push him. So she nudged him gently instead, avoiding his attempt at one last hug for fear of never letting him go if he did, and shrugged.

"Go find out," she suggested, eyes flicking to the door.

He walked away with stiff shoulders and tremors in his fingers, his feet shuffling slowly to the door where he stopped. The boy turned to look back at her, looking younger than he had done in a long, long time.

"Love you, Snow," he said quietly.

And as he turned away, one foot out of the doorway, Sadie White replied with a sob in her throat.

"Love you, Porcelain."

**glee**

"What are we doing here?" Kurt demanded.

It was the loudest Burt had ever heard him speak, and he decided it was going to take some time to get used to the pale, feminine twang in his son's voice. The boy was staring at him with wide panicked eyes, one hand resting protectively on his stitched stomach while the other balled into a fist in his lap.

They were sitting in the back of a simple black car, driven by Justin, who had offered to be their escort.

Burt had been unsure at first when the sergeant had suggested bringing Kurt here, but had ultimately thought it couldn't help to try for some catharsis before dragging the teen halfway across the country.

Now, however, with Kurt's horror before him, he was starting to regret his decision.

Thankfully, Justin intervened, leaving Burt time to recollect himself from the boy's glare.

"You don't have to go in, kid," he said kindly, shifting in the driver's seat to look around to the back seat. "It's entirely up to you."

Kurt's eyes shifted from Burt to the police officer, and then out of the window once more to rest of a stubby block of run down apartments, police tape cutting off the doorway on the ground floor. He bit his quivering lower lip, blinking rapidly.

When almost a minute passed an the boy didn't move again, the two older men flashed a glance at one another, nodding surreptitiously.

"Kurt," Burt said quietly, prodding with his gentle tone, "You don't have to go in. But after today…after today, I don't think you'll get another chance."

He felt cruel, the hint of an ultimatum in his words. But it was the blunt truth, and he knew the boy already afraid of moving to Ohio. There was no need to add another regret onto the mountain of shit that had made up this boy's life so far.

Kurt hummed in the back of his throat, so quietly it was no more than the subtle buzz of a fly. He nodded jerkily, forcing himself to act before he could lose his nerve, and with shaking hands he opened the door and stepped out of the car.

The two men followed him onto the empty street, and Justin indicated with a vague wave of his hand the taped off front door, smashed open and unfixed by police brute force.

Burt tried not to imagine what it must have been like growing up in the dark, dank building as they entered. The ugly graffiti on the walls, the stench of old wood and brick, damp and dusty. He rejected the mental images of a four year old Kurt running up and down the corridor; pushed away the thought of a young Katherine Gibson raising her son here.

Was she a loving mother?

He'd always thought she would have been. As a young man, with the typically casual thought of _in the far, far future, when we're married with three kids_, it had seemed inevitable that Kathy would be a wonderful mother.

But the Kathy he had known would never have left the way she did, and the thought of doubting everything he knew and loved about the woman who would have been his wife was too painful to consider.

Charming Kathy. Lively Kathy. Warm Kathy. Flighty Kathy.

Had she held Kurt close and cuddled him? Had she soothed his nightmares with songs and kisses?

And in the brief quarter of a second in which he allowed himself to think about the deep pit down which his Kathy had fallen, Burt wondered who had looked after Kurt when the boy's mother was out at work.

He couldn't allow himself to imagine her leaving him alone, and he didn't dare ask.

Not yet, at least.

So he followed in creaking silence with Sergeant McDonnell by his side as the boy shuffled his way with wary familiarity up the flights of stairs - _one, two, three…-_ until finally they stopped outside a rust coloured door.

The numbering had long since disappeared, and this door was one of a minority that had managed to avoid the bright spray paint in various shades of red and green and blue. But with a glance at the place where a number, or at least a nameplate, should have been, Burt noticed a word carved deep into the wood, too obvious to be covered up.

_Queers_.

He wondered if it was too optimistic of him to hope it was an affectionate insult used by at least a close, necessary alliance made between occupants of the broken building, just a nickname and not what it looked like. A threat.

Kurt didn't pay attention to his surroundings until he was fully inside the apartment, where he stopped short, leaving barely enough room for the two men to squeeze in behind him.

Devoid of most basic furniture as it was, the apartment was still cramped.

The large space acted as a kitchen and living room combined, a yellowed fridge in the corner beside a sink with a tap that seemed highly unlikely to be fully functioning. The burst sofa faced a wall that under any normal circumstances would probably have held a television.

Burt didn't inspect the floor too closely. He didn't look down to see what crunched beneath his feet. He simply sidled to the wall a little, where he could examine his son's face without being too easily noticed.

Kurt's emotions, for possibly the first time, ran wild and unchecked across his face.

His eyes glistened and his pale skin lost what little colour could be seen beneath hard purple and yellow bruises. Burt didn't fail to notice they way the boy avoided a large space in the corner of the near the sofa. A space large enough for three people to comfortably socialise, exchanging words and drugs before poison and police and death could tear them apart forever.

The teenager's shaking worsened as he walked towards the closed door on the far side of the room, the open one revealing a badly tiled bathroom that Burt wasn't so sure could actually fit all the basic human necessities for decent hygiene.

Kurt opened the stiff door with a firm push of steely resolve and walked boldly inside.

Justin and Burt stood looking in from the doorway. The ratty mattress on the old bed frame; a battered guitar case in the corner, piles of ripped paper and stubbed pencils beside it; a chest of open drawers that revealed all manner of clothes.

Burt's heart leapt to his throat, choking him.

Hanging out of one of the drawers was an old jumper, once dark blue but now almost colourless with wear and tear.

A brief memory of Kathy wearing his larger sized jumpers flashed in his mind, and he felt his entire frame stiffen. Justin turned to look at him questioningly, but Burt didn't look back.

It had finally hit him. Some remote corner of Burt Hummel's consciousness had finally become aware of the past twelve days.

This wasn't just a series of fairytale events in a storybook.

Katherine Gibson was dead.

Katherine Gibson was dead, and Burt Hummel was a father.

Not a stepfather, not a practically-adopted father. But a biological father.

A biological father to the boy now kneeling in front of a shabby guitar case, reaching out to it with worshipping fingers that trembled as if it was the Holy Grail itself.

This boy was to be in his care. This boy's life was in his hands.

And as the responsibility hit him with tidal force, those worshipping, trembling, bruised fingers finally grasped the sacred guitar case, and Burt could see from the profile angle with which he was watching his son that the guitar inside, perhaps even the case, too, was the most precious thing in the world to this boy.

This guitar was all that was left of the one thing Kurt was going to have to leave behind.

It wasn't as hard as Burt had thought it would be, imagining Kurt in mourning over another boy.

He considered himself an accepting man, but he impressed even himself with his adjustment.

But one thought nagged him, staining his positivity.

Was it because it was simply a memory? _Homosexual_, regarding Kurt, was simply an idea in his head. Would it be different if Burt was to see the boy showing an actual interest in another male?

Burt shuddered, not in repulsion of the thought, but at another wave of reality.

He had absolutely no idea to what extent his small-town-Ohio-bred homophobia lay. And he would be damned if he put Kurt at risk of being hurt when he found out.

Justin, unaware of Burt's personal revelations and self-doubts, had finally taken a step inside the bedroom. He put a gentle hand on the nearest post of the bed frame, eyes on the crouched teenager.

"Anything left here can be taken. If you want, Kurt," he said without further comment.

Kurt bristled at being addressed by his name, but with his back still slightly to the officer he nodded openly, clutching the shaped case to his bruised stomach, as if unaware of the pain it was causing to press it so hard against his stitches.

He seemed to come to after a few more seconds, hesitantly standing up and turning around to face the two men.

The boy's eyes were red but dry, and Burt sent him a shaky smile that caused him to duck his head, almost shyly.

"I should probably be getting you to the airport," Justin interrupted, looking apologetic for ruining the moment that Burt would had dearly loved to call a bonding moment, but was it? Was it really?

He had no idea how to get close to the boy, and it was frustrating to think that an occurrence as limited as eye contact was considered 'bonding'.

"Everything's in the car?" Burt checked gruffly while Kurt shifted awkwardly on the spot.

"All set," Justin confirmed with a sharp nod. "The guitar case has already been checked out-" Kurt flinched at the mention, and stroked the metal latch lovingly. "-so it'll be safe to go on the plane. You got your passports?"

Burt patted his coat pocket, which held his wallet, keys and two passports. The first was his own, and the second was a police documentation that would have to double as a passport for the journey, leaving Burt to get one for his son in his own time. Kurt hadn't seen it yet, and Burt was wary to let him. At the top it read in clear bold _Kurt Hummel_, as all legal registration of Kurt as a US citizen now read.

The older man wasn't too sure how the boy would react to seeing it written so clearly for the world to see. Kurt_ Hummel_, Burt's name attached so abruptly onto the end of his own.

"Right then…Kurt?"

Like a deer caught in headlights, Kurt's eyes flitted wide from one man to the other, cautiously watching their exchange. This was it. He was about to say goodbye to New York City.

"It's time to go, bud," Burt said in his most welcoming tone. _Time to go home_, he wanted to say, but he lacked the courage. Or perhaps it really would have been too much to say that quite yet.

Kurt didn't say a word. He simply nodded, his unfailing grip tightening on the guitar case, and followed the two men out of the room. He stopped at the chest of drawers to reach over and slip something out of it. Burt caught sight of the blue jumper that had initially paused his beating heart, now in his son's hands, and something warm flooded his stomach at the thought of Kurt finding some comfort from an old piece of his clothing, no doubt given to him by his mother.

It was as if he had always been there to provide some form of homely shelter for Kurt, even before he knew of his existence.

"Want to wear it, kid? Or should I put it in the case for you?" Justin asked briskly once they had left the stifling confines of the abandoned building.

For a brief moment Burt thought Kurt was going to slip it on over his cheaply supplied jeans and jumper, which had been picked up for him by the nurse who had spent the most time caring for him over the past two weeks, but then he handed it to the sergeant. Justin reached over to accept it, knowing not to get too close, and handled it with a pleasantly surprising degree of delicacy as he opened the boot of the car and folded it into Burt's case.

Burt turned to the boy beside him, and their gazes caught again.

This time, though a blush stained the unblemished patches of Kurt's cheeks, the stare lasted. Burt shrugged, almost as if to say, _well then? _and Kurt, to his surprise, nodded.

And as they returned to the back of the car, staring out of their respective windows with the radio barely playing in the background, the airport drawing ever closer, Burt allowed himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, he could actually do this.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: As A God**

**Summary: 18 years ago, Burt Hummel's girlfriend disappeared. He spent months desperately searching, but eventually he had to accept Kathy was gone. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, Finn, and even Finn's best friend. But then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old admitted to hospital for a drug overdose and carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? There's only one way to find out.**

**Warnings: Right, this is a long one. Violence, substance abuse, sexual violence, prostitution (including underage), swearing, 'phobic slander, angsty goodness, self harm, suicidal thoughts (possibly acts)…yeah, this will be quite dark at times, at least, the themes will be.**

**Seeing as it's taking me so long to write out the meeting between Carole/the boys and Burt/Kurt, I present to you a little token of my efforts. Some Klaine! :) Mixed a little bit of aeroplane journeys. Enjoy, my beauties, and please let me know your thoughts!**

**Love, SallyStorm xx**

**Over and out.**

(chapter eight)

_To you, your father should be __**as a god**__;  
>One that compos'd your beauties, yea, and one<br>To whom you are but as a form in wax  
>By him imprinted, and within his power<br>To leave the figure or disfigure it._  
><em><strong>A Midsummer Night's Dream<strong>_** (1.1.50-4)**

_In some ways, summer nights are so much better than winter nights. Stuffy New York streets, hot and humid and generally unpleasant, make wearing skimpy shorts and tight t-shirts at least that little bit more appealing. So much easier than trudging through snow in the heartless depths of December._

_In some ways, summer nights are so much worse than winter nights. Sweat drips quicker and pools in the awkward places - small of the back, curve of the forehead, slope of the upper lip, dip of the backs of the knees, the crevices of fingers and toes. Everything is sticky and everything is damp. And that's before the work gets started._

_But at least hot summers mean Kurt doesn't have to worry about having no air conditioning in his apartment._

_He can stumble and slump through the never-locked front door, rid himself of the very few clothes restricting his aching body, and collapse in the middle of the main room._

_He can close his eyes so his eyelids rub against the rough, stained carpet, let sleep claim him knowing he's earned his right to do nothing for several hours._

_The predawn glow is illuminating the horizon, casting eerie shadows on his ashen face._

_He's aware of nothing but his own existence, right here on the gritty carpet of his home, until something wet and cold is pressed against his exposed back._

_It rubs, tender, along his jutting vertebrae, curves around the faint lines of ribs, the sharp corners of hips. It traces a soft path over knotted shoulders and over the plump swell of his bruised backside. It massages tense thighs and touches stiff calves._

_And as he wipes and cleans and comforts, Blaine hums one of those melancholy tunes he's always strumming at on his guitar._

_Thrice the cloth is dipped into a cracked bucket of cool water, turning it murky with lots of sweat and a little blood. And once the pale boy's back is sufficiently wet and softened, their biggest towel is laid out at full stretch beside him._

_"Roll over, beautiful." Blaine breaks away from his hum, and Kurt complies, docile under Blaine's gentle hand._

_And so the process begins again._

_Dip, squeeze, rub. And if there's a bruise, a pair of lips will kiss the hurt away._

_Cold water is squeezed over his forehead, salty with sweat. It trickles through his hair and sends a shiver down his spine, followed by thick, guitar-calloused fingers that thread and massage until the headache he didn't mention is gone._

_Face and throat and chest and stomach and groin and arms and hands and legs and feet._

_"All clean," the shorter boy announces._

_Kurt's eyes are closed, but he smiles, allows himself to be pulled into a shaky standing position and led blindly to the bedroom. There's an Ohio jumper in the battered chest of drawers. It's threadbare and still retains some of the blue colour it used to be._

_Blaine wraps it around the fragile boy, because Blaine knows what to do. Tug loose boxers over bruised hips that won't rub painfully, and it's too hot to dress him in anything else. Kurt snuffles and snuggles and buries himself into the pillow, one hand clutching his damp hair._

_The other keeps a tight hold on Blaine's wrist._

_And the boy still standing smiles fondly, reaches to peel away those pale spidery fingers that clutch and grab like a child._

_"Nnn, st'y," a sleepy voice demands, and Blaine wishes he could obey. Oh, he really wishes he could obey._

_"It's a Saturday, beautiful," Blaine reminds the boy with regret in his voice and in his heart. "I have to go to work."_

_Kurt whimpers with stubborn irritation, squeezes tighter for less than a second, and then lets go completely._

_"Sleep," Blaine commands unnecessarily. "I'll be back before you know it." He watches Kurt. Watches the way he trembles ever so slightly, not from hot and not from cold and not from fear and not from pain. Need, pure want and need. They'll need more soon._

_And any guilt that briefly floods his intestines like dirty blood is forgotten at the thought of making Kurt happy again. Of watching that desperate pain turn to pure joy, if only for a short while._

_If only for a short, artificial while._

_It's enough._

_It's enough the same way one last kiss to a clammy cheekbone is enough, and Blaine can still taste some of the sweat he'd thought he'd washed away as lips meet skin._

_It's enough for Kurt and Blaine. It has to be._

**glee**

It's tense and uncomfortable and a new realm of Dante's Inferno saved only for those who walk the path of fire and ice to reach this moment. A large metal structure full of explosive fuel that you must trust will not crash and burn and tumble rocket-fast to the ground as it carries you with wings that don't flap from New York to Ohio. The son whimpers softly at every sound and the father feels nothing but guilt that cannot be alleviated.

**glee**

_Porcelain would recognise him anywhere._

_Two months ago, the boy bought him for one hundred dollars. They slept on the mattress, and it was a pity buy that Porcelain had resented._

_Three weeks ago, Porcelain had seen him for a second time, worse for wear and grateful for the coffee and half a donut Porcelain had offered him. They hadn't spoken, but an agreement had been made between them. A silent exchange of the eyes; a glitter of gold for a twinkle of glasz._

_It's their third meeting, and Porcelain knows him straight away. His name's Blaine, and Porcelain feels pathetic for remembering after over eight weeks of being told._

_"Porcelain," he says - _sighs _- and it's as if this boy, this Blaine, has been looking for him forever, the gentle lilt of his voice as his lips curl sweetly around the soft vowels of the prostitute's name._

_He's holding a wad of money in his hands, and for the first time in many years a blush rises furiously in Porcelain's cheeks. For some reason, it's embarrassing this time._

_But he can't refuse, because he needs the money. And what's more, Spike has noticed their exchange, his greedy eyes locking onto the money in the shorter boy's hand._

_"I'll take that, sweetheart," Spike leers, crinkling the money between oily fingers and stuffing it out of sight into the depths of his pockets where no man nor woman would dare chase it. "Off you go, Porcelain."_

_He slaps the barely covered ass that passes him. Ironic, really, that Porcelain doesn't even seem to notice the open palm cracking against the dipped curve where his ass meets his thighs, but the customer looks mortally offended._

_They slip through the semi-open doorway and up, up, up to a room. The same room as before._

_Only this time, the customer's eyes hold no weary intentions of sleeping. They glitter and roam across a pale, ivory face. Porcelain lets him look._

_He paid for it, didn't he?_

_"Porcelain…" the voice hasn't changed at all. Husky and dusty and as welcome as hot cocoa on a wintry night. "It's…It's me. Blaine."_

_Porcelain nods, and feels foolish for it._

_"I just needed to…" Blaine tries to speak, but the words twist his tongue. The Explanations and Justifications that he no doubt dreamed up all day every day for the past three weeks are lodged thick in the column of his throat, choking him, breathless. "I wanted to see if…because when I saw you in that park…and you were so…and I just…"_

_For some reason, it takes every last ounce of courage for Porcelain to take a daring step closer to his customer._

_Blaine registers the movement with wide eyes. Before he can stop himself, he leans forwards, captures cold, pale lips with his own, and kisses hard._

_And Porcelain's not sure why, but he doesn't have to think about it when he kisses back._

_There are no hands touching and grabbing and pulling and rubbing. Lips on lips, and then tongue on tongue. Until that courage stored deep in the pit of Porcelain's stomach drives him forward another inch or so, shuffling with his feet. And a firm hand softly holds the back of his head as the other cups his jaw, and Blaine is cradling his whore's face as though he is a porcelain doll._

_Porcelain's hands clench fists by his sides. Not his place to touch, after all._

_Somehow, between the breathless whines and the wanton moans, they sink to the floor until their legs are curled, and in a smooth twist of his upper body Blaine has pinned Porcelain to the floor._

_No, not pinned. It isn't force, or torture, or selfish brutality. It's one body covering another, sheltering it from the storm of guilt that swells like a raincloud above them. Because Blaine was taught that buying sex is wrong. Because Porcelain was taught that enjoying sex is wrong._

_They sigh their wrongfulness into one another's mouths. They taste shame on one another's tongues, like strawberries and champagne and melted dark chocolate, sinful and oh so wonderful._

_And Blaine in his innocence and inexperience teaches Porcelain that sex doesn't have to be an emotionless transaction of money and bodily fluids. Sex doesn't have to be a mechanical operation of pounding from behind, forced to grunt and yelp like a dog._

_It can be just like this. Face to face and chest to chest. Fingers entwined even stronger than tongues, clothes lovingly slipped off like silken robes and tossed aside like dirty rags, hips pushing up to meet and legs wrapping and holding and there's a fragile gentility about it all. The way Blaine's hands make sure it will be painless, fingers like a caring doctor's the way they mould and curve to fit this broken shell that was once a human body._

_And it's a push and a press and why does it feel so good? It's lust and something akin to love, and fingers are tightening on porcelain skin, but it isn't cruel and it isn't possessive. It's the simple pull of the anchor to steady the rocking ship in this storm of sex and emotion. And _oh_…that's why so many men will pay for their climaxes._

_If this is what it feels like, Porcelain can't bring himself to hate them anymore. Not right now._

_At first he's blinded by the euphoria that is so different to the heady spin of drugs, and then he's blinded by tears that are more humiliating than anything. A humiliation worse than spreading his legs for any sum of money._

_He wonders if Blaine will slap those salty droplets away the same way Snow did._

_He doesn't expect the arms around him to tighten, a hand to thread through his hair and pull forwards until his face is buried deep into an underfed chest. But warm, and welcoming, and still so strong._

_They are connected by too many sins._

_They turn and twist and slot together. They are missing pieces from different puzzles. If forced (by money, by lust, by poverty) they fit together as well as can be expected. Not perfect, but that doesn't exist._

_And here is Porcelain, lying on a dirty mattress with a man who has bought his sex and his love, learning what it feels like to have another person catch his tears._

**glee**

Airports are unpleasant at best. New York, Ohio, it doesn't matter. Fast food and slow food and hot food and cold food and food on the floor. Screaming children and crying children and paddying children and angry children and tired children and excited children. Couples taking off and couples coming home and couples saying goodbye and couples saying hello. All the same. All the same unpleasantness. The father leads his son through this sea of mayhem, collects the bags and is gratefully surprised when the boy carries his own bag. There is a taxi waiting for them, or so his wife said.

A taxi to take them to Lima.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: As A God**

**Summary: 18 years ago, Burt Hummel's girlfriend disappeared. He spent months desperately searching, but eventually he had to accept Kathy was gone. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, Finn, and even Finn's best friend. But then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old admitted to hospital for a drug overdose and carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? There's only one way to find out.**

**Warnings: Right, this is a long one. Violence, substance abuse, sexual violence, prostitution (including underage), swearing, 'phobic slander, angsty goodness, self harm, suicidal thoughts (possibly acts)…yeah, this will be quite dark at times, at least, the themes will be.**

**So, in a few days my best friend is going to be moving to the other end of the country. I'm feeling pretty sad about that. "The Break-Up" obviously hasn't helped my mood at all. Sorry it took so long to get here, but for some reason this chapter just refused to be written. I hope I've done it justice, and I hope I still have at least a couple of readers out there.**

**This is for Kyle and Stewart and anyone else making big changes in their lives this month, no matter how scary or new their futures are.**

**-SallyStorm**

**Over and out.**

(chapter nine)

_To you, your father should be __**as a god**__;  
>One that compos'd your beauties, yea, and one<br>To whom you are but as a form in wax  
>By him imprinted, and within his power<br>To leave the figure or disfigure it._  
><em><strong>A Midsummer Night's Dream<strong>_** (1.1.50-4)**

Carole's nerves were wound tight by the time the taxi pulled up outside the driveway.

Finn and Noah sat in the kitchen enjoying the grilled cheese sandwiches that Carole had passed sharing with them, claiming she wasn't hungry. In all honesty, she simply feared she wouldn't be able to keep anything solid down.

The skin of her hands was sore with constant wringing, the nervous habit from childhood that her anti-ageing obsessed mother had always warned her, even from a young age, would give her old hands by the time she was thirty. Although right now, as the taxi slowed to a halt in the street, wrinkles in her skin were the last thing on her mind.

Her eyes widened as her husband clambered out of the front seat, quickly heaved two bags out of the trunk, and made his way slowly to the front door. He was followed by a slight figure topped with brown hair. She watched Burt pause and turn to the boy, leaning in to speak quietly, shielding the boy's face from view. She saw the brown head nod jerkily.

"Boys!" she called over her shoulder as she moved away from her perch near the window. "Burt's home!"

There was a great clatter as two kitchen chairs fell victim to the nosy excitement of the teenagers, who raced to the couch where it had been decided they would greet their newcomer from a quietly unintimidating position.

Carole stood next to the coffee table, eyes on the door, and she flinched slightly at the click of the front door. The shuffle of the two pairs of feet in the hallway was even louder than the gentle mumble of one comforting voice.

Burt entered first, lightly pecking his wife on the lips and pulling her into a tight but brief embrace.

"Come on, kiddo," he said with a gruff fondness Carole had never before heard in her husband's voice as he looked to the doorway.

The boy that entered hesitantly upon command looked discomfited by the overwhelming attention of three new and curious pairs of eyes on him. His twitchy movements, with darting eyes and a bowed head, reminded Carole of a wild animal that had been caged for some time, desperate to escape but fully aware of the impossibility of such a wish being granted. Her breath constricted in her chest.

He was wearing a faded blue jumper, several sizes too large, so only the spidery tips of his pale fingers protruded from the sleeves, the neckline swooping low enough to expose the sharp angles of his collarbones.

Carole's gaze roamed across the blotchy skin of his bare neck and face, taking in mottled bruises of yellow and purple, occasional scarred lines of cold white and angry red, the tender break of an old split lip ruining the pink of his non-smile. His slender nose dipped softly in the middle like a badly fixed break, and his cheekbones were blushed with blue and purple like an ugly, discoloured flush that circled dark rings around his eyelids to match his sleepless shadows.

She paused as she met his eyes, which purposefully avoided the direction of the two teens on the couch sat ogling him with unabashed wonder. His eyes were as deep and dangerous as the oceans that coloured them, and they held Carole in a glance of wary distrust that she, mother and nurse, knew would not be fixed with a gentle word and soft lullaby at bedtime, like the mere remnants of a nightmare dispelled.

"And Kurt," she said softly, as if addressing a wounded dog, rabid but in pain. She was pleased with herself for maintaining her welcoming smile even as those cold eyes looked into her face, searching with an appraising disbelief.

It was awkward. Demanding reassurance from a man he did not fully trust, Kurt looked back to Burt, who smiled his sad, exhausted smile and nodded.

"Kurt, this is my wife Carole. This here's her son, Finn, and Finn's best friend, Puck."

Previous meetings and greetings had taught them that most people would be confused by the nickname _Puck_, and would need further explanation. But Kurt seemed unfazed by the peculiar nickname. In fact, he didn't seem fazed by anything at all. His expression didn't change and as the silence thickened like rapidly cooling custard, unpleasant and unwanted, Finn spoke.

"Uhh, hey dude."

Kurt's eyes snapped over to the boy sitting closest to him.

Finn did not share his mother's talent for hiding discomfort. He shifted awkwardly and blushed, but Noah's eyes held firm when Kurt's attention turned to him.

It was as if he was trying to figure the pale, underfed boy out. He smiled a smallest of smiles, barely a curve of the lips. It lacked the right amount of encouraging enthusiasm that Carole and Burt shared in their parental wisdom, but instead engaged a quiet understanding that caused Kurt in turn to look away, the translucency of the skin at his cheeks a little darker than before.

"Finn sleeps in the basement," Burt explained with a hum, determined not to let any silence drag too long, as if afraid what might be read into long, unspoken words. "Puck sleeps there too when he stays over, which is quite a lot."

A year ago, Noah would have ducked his head, embarrassed at such a statement. Instead he shrugged half heartedly, attempting nonchalance and achieving awkward indifference.

"We had two spare rooms," Carole explained, as if wanting to fully plant herself as a friendly figure to Kurt. "So I've made up one of them for you, and that'll be your room."

She wasn't sure what Kurt had been expecting, but this seemed to surprise him. It was his biggest reaction since entering the house, eyes widening a little and lips parting, though only breath escaped his throat.

"If you like, I could show you it now?" Carole offered, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Burt look to her with a grateful, sympathetic smile. He didn't seem to think it would be quite so easy to coax the boy into a response.

But Kurt did respond. He gave another jerky nod, like the one he had given Burt in the driveway outside, and a twitch of one shoulder that seemed to be half a shrug, in some universal sign of _ok, if I must_.

It was good enough for Carole. She walked slowly out of the living room, making no attempt to usher Kurt out. Rather, allowing him to follow of his own volition. And he did.

Kurt looked briefly back at the three men behind him, more of a flinch than a glance, and followed the woman into the hallway.

Burt, silenced in shock, paused for a moment before turning to his stepson and his friend.

"Hey," they both hummed, standing up and waving before offering a hug, which Burt accepted from each with equal gratitude.

"Hey there boys," he smiled wearily, taking a seat on the coffee table in front of them as they sat back down. "So, what have you been told then, kids?"

**glee**

The spare room in question was a soothing shade of blue. It washed paler than the boy's eyes, brightened by the autumn light filtering through the netting over the windows, and Kurt regarded it with an indifference that Carole had expected, and was not offended by.

Rather than pander and pester the reluctant boy behind her, she set about placing the bag she'd picked up in the hallway onto the foot of the bed, instructing in a casual, friendly manner to unpack in his own time, and to use as much or little of the space provided as he wanted. Not wanting to overwhelm him, Carole sat down gently next to the bag and made no move to encourage Kurt to sit, too. She simply left plenty of room for him to join her.

"You want to know something, Kurt?" the woman asked into the surprisingly calm silence echoing through the room. The boy made no acknowledgement of his name. He continued to stare at a particularly interesting blank patch of wall in front of him. "I have no idea what to do, either."

He turned. At least, his head jerked to the side but he paused half way, as if regretting the action. As he hovered in limbo between interest and indifference, Carole smiled warmly, affectionately. Motherly.

"But I'm happy to keep working at it until we get it right."

Lots of people - some of her closest friends included - assumed that Carole Hummel was the badgering, emotional type of nurse. The one to coddle her patients and coo and hum and soothe and pat them on the head.

They were wrong, though.

When Carole Hudson was not long qualified she had sat with a young man of fifteen years as he waited for his parents to fly home from a European business trip. With both legs strapped up, one arm in a cast from his wrist to his collar bone, and in a constant state of itchy anxiety as his skin grafts healed, he had attempted at first to make a dramatic joke about how he really, _really _should have listened to that talk on motorbike safety at school, or maybe just not allowed his friend to convince him to go on it in the first place.

She had smiled endearingly and mothered him.

To her surprise - and, though at the time she wouldn't have admitted it, heartbreak - her attitude had snapped something inside him. Apparently he didn't want to hear about how it was all going to be ok, and everything would turn out all right, and they would get it sorted. Apparently, between hanging out with friends he didn't even really like and living with parents so desperately trying to hide their failing marriage from him, he'd had enough of lies and softened blows.

Ever since that fateful evening Carole Hudson, and then Carole Hummel, had been the friendly nurse that everyone liked and, more importantly, respected; the one who wasted no time pandering to fussers.

Like the boy on the motorbike it seemed Kurt quite enjoyed being treated to a little honesty.

He didn't rush to Carole's arms and allow himself to be held in a tight embrace at her confession. He didn't so much as take a step forward, or smile. But something in his expression warmed, perhaps hidden in those steely eyes.

It was subtle, and it couldn't even really be counted as a baby step, but it was there nonetheless.

**glee**

Burt loved his stepson dearly, sometimes to the point of forgetting they were not strictly blood relatives. He was proud to go to Finn's football games and point him out, cheer him on, be the supportive dad that the teen both wanted and needed him to be.

But lacking a blood connection to the boy did give Burt some measure of objectivity, however slight, when regarding Finn as a young man. And Burt was more than aware of how impressionable Finn Hudson could be, how easily he fell into the category of the majority, just because it was easier than standing out as the individual he _could _be.

He knew all about the bullying in early high school, and though Burt was very aware that Finn (and Noah, of course) had stopped being the jock stereotype he had moulded himself into in previous years, Burt also knew that his stepson was not always very comfortable when it came to accepting what he didn't understand.

Burt highly doubted Finn understood homosexuality. Or prostitution or drug addiction, for that matter, but Burt wasn't going to make the mistake of slotting all three of them into the same category again.

So hearing Finn explain what he and Noah had been told by Carole about Kurt in a calm manner had been something of a shock - pleasant, but a shock nevertheless. They knew that Kurt had lost someone very dear to him, and that that someone had been a boy. They knew that New York had been cruel to Kurt, and he was going to be delicate and possibly ill for quite a while. They knew that time was going to be needed, and they announced with great certainty that they were more than happy to give the boy as much time as he needed.

Finn had stuttered over a botched statement of Kurt having a hard life in New York that made Burt wonder if he'd underestimated his stepson, that maybe he could guess what a _hard life in New York _meant for a young teen.

Noah's face had remained in his default setting of stonily indifferent, frustratingly unreadable. Finn was the same open book that he'd been as a pre-teen when Burt first met him.

"I know I'm asking a lot of both you boys," Burt said, firm but unapologetic. "I really think we can help Kurt a lot. I need to know you'll be there to look out for him."

"Sure!" The hero dazzle in Finn's eye twinkled with excitement. "He can stick with us at school. We'll make sure at least one of us is in each of his lessons, right Puck?"

Noah nodded slowly, silently, watching Burt curiously as if expecting him to say no. Which, of course, he did.

"That's the thing, Finn. Kurt's not going to McKinley with you."

It was unclear whether Finn was confused or offended by this.

"Why not?"

"Kurt…he didn't have much chance to go to school, Finn. We're getting him a tutor to help him catch up."

"But can't he just…I don't know. Can't he just start in a lower year? We'll still look out for him, even if he has to be a freshman. We can-"

"Finn," Burt cut in, a little louder than he intended. But he was exhausted, and it felt as if he hadn't had a moment to himself in years. Responsibility lapped in waves high over his head as he struggled for air. "He needs a tutor, son. And in any case, I don't think he'd be too happy about being somewhere so busy as McKinley when he's so far away from where he's grown up."

He couldn't quite bring himself to call New York Kurt's home.

Silence followed. Perhaps the gentle nod of Finn's head was a spark of understanding as he realised that the bustling hallways of William McKinley High School came second, that Kurt really _couldn't _go to high school yet. Or perhaps it was just a nod of acceptance.

Before Burt could find out, however, there was a creak of stairs being descended and they turned as Carole appeared in the doorway.

"I've left him some time to himself. I told him he can come down when he wants, or we'll fetch him when dinner's ready."

She'd left him still standing, eyes hovering between her face and the wall, looking a little less on edge than he had done upon entering the house. She hadn't told him about the locks on the windows, though. She wondered vaguely whether they'd be necessary.

**glee**

Motherhood, by Carole Hummel's standards, consisted of three defining elements: singing while ironing, laughter, and a steaming kitchen. The first, as an embarrassment to the children who just want to grow up. The second, for the children to grow up in a happy, optimistic environment. The third, because woman stereotypes aside Carole Hummel loved to cook, dammit, and that didn't mean making sandwiches.

As she bustled between cupboards and the cooker and the fridge, Carole hummed a half forgotten tune in her head, relishing the scent of root vegetables that wafted through the room.

"Finn, sweetheart, can you go fetch Kurt please? He- Finn!" she scolded, and in a flash the wooden spoon in Finn's hand had flown across the kitchen in fright as he thrust it from his mouth, a guilty flush in his cheeks. "Get out of my kitchen!" Carole ordered, shooing her son away. "And fetch-"

"I'll do it, Mrs H," Noah, who had been watching the exchange with some amusement, volunteered, sauntering out of the room as Finn eyed the wooden spoon hungrily where it lay on the floor.

Noah wasn't entirely sure why he was so eager to be the one to call Kurt down for dinner.

Perhaps it was the subconscious knowledge that Finn would more than likely bound into the room with barely a knock of warning and end up frightening the kid into a coma or something. But even if that was the case, there was one undeniable fact that Noah was not entirely sure he understood himself.

This Kurt kid was all kinds of fascinating.

It was frustrating to know he couldn't bombard him with questions about New York, about a city, about being somewhere other than Ohio. It was also frustrating being teased with the knowledge life in busy ol' NYC hadn't been _kind _to the boy.

Because Noah was perfectly willing to accept he didn't know a lot of things, but what he did know was that in a city as big as New York City, there were plenty of ways it could be _unkind _to a person, especially a teenager.

He paused outside the closed door to the spare bedroom, frowned at the wood in front of him.

For some reason his hands felt incredibly empty, as if he should have brought a peace offering of some sort to present to the newcomer.

Noah turned, backtracked a few paces, and peered through the banister to the bottom of the stairs.

Burt's bag was still balanced precariously on the shoe rack, and leaning beside it was an object that definitely did not belong to Mr H.

Darting down the stairs Noah stared for a moment, then reached down, picked up the battered guitar case with the affectionate delicacy of one who knows the exact importance of loving an instrument so precious, and carried it upstairs.

He knocked immediately this time, three taps that were possibly a little too hard, but he was all of a sudden too nervous to feel guilty. He felt a little like touching the worn case was some direct invasion of deepest privacy.

This feeling only intensified when the spare bedroom door opened. The boy that opened the door tentatively, cautious eyes of widest glasz staring at him, shrank back upon seeing the identity of his visitor, but the guitar case caught him by surprise. He looked up at Noah with a pleading gaze, as if worried Noah was holding it hostage.

A wordless cry escaped the boy's throat and he glared at the case with a furious love.

"Hey, dude, no, wait, umm…" Noah stammered and held the object out with weak hands. "I just thought, because I know Mr H…umm, Burt doesn't play guitar so it was probably yours. I was just bringing it to you."

Kurt snatched it close to his chest like it was an infant, cradling it with a tender touch, but when Noah glanced at the boy's hands he couldn't help but wonder how someone could play for any length of time and manage to avoid finger pad calluses. He shook the matter aside, returning his eyes to the bruised, flushed face before him.

Noah smiled awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shrugging with slight unease at the wavering distrust in those shiny, glasz eyes.

"I didn't mean to scare you like that, dude. Sorry about that."

He watched as Kurt, never quite turning around completely, backed into the room to place the guitar case reverently at the end of the bed. Once assured it was quite safe from harm, Kurt turned back to the boy in the doorway, expression expectantly confused.

"Oh, yeah, umm. Dinner's ready. I told Carole I'd come get you. It's soup. Mrs H makes the best soup ever."

Kurt didn't make a move until Noah slowly turned to walk back down the landing to the stairs, and even then, shutting the door behind him a firm _click_, he followed several paces behind, always further than an arm's length away.

Noah, while a little hurt, didn't mention it. He sauntered back down the stairs and into the kitchen without comment, saving a quick smile thrown over his shoulder as he headed to the dining room table.

"Here we are, Kurt," Carole said gently, tapping the back of the chair opposite Finn's without ushering the slender boy towards it. Kurt sat gingerly, eyeing the bowls and cutlery as if confused.

The expression only deepened when a large helping of soup was placed in front of him.

"I know you probably won't finish all that, Kurt, but just have as much of it as you like. Even just a few mouthfuls."

Kurt shrank a little deeper into his seat, wishing the woman would stop drawing attention to him.

"Thanks, sweetheart," Burt accepted his own bowl gratefully and, unlike the two boisterous teens grinning loudly about an x-box marathon with some of their Glee Club friends, waited for Carole to serve herself and sit down before eating anything.

It was only once everyone else at the table had gulped down several mouthfuls each that Kurt tentatively reached for his spoon. It was heavy and cold in his hand, and the steamy heat wafting from the pot and bowls at the table was starting to crowd the air. He breathed through his nose, letting the scent waft a shiver down his spine as his stomach burned with eager hunger, even as it throbbed gently under the lull of pain medication.

He could feel four pairs of eyes on him as the head of the spoon dipped into the dark green soup. Burt merely glanced out of the corner of his eye and continued eating, and it seemed Carole was as eager to know Kurt liked the soup as she was to make sure he was eating at all. The two teenagers sat opposite him, however, were not quite as subtle. Their conversation took a definite turn for the quieter as he raised the spoon to his lips and swallowed.

The smile of encouragement he received from Carole wasn't patronising, the way he'd feared it would be. Only gratefully pleased.

It was left without words. Even though barely ten mouthfuls later Kurt felt as if another drop would be the end of him, he allowed himself to enjoy what he could. He was (to his deepest gratitude) left out of the conversations that ensued, allowing him to focus on his food and then his silence in peace, the incomprehensible noise of the words exchanged across the table enough to fill the emptiness that had, over the past few days, threatened to envelop him completely.

Once everyone was finished Finn and Noah had, with only mildest grumbling, cleared the table and began to wash up. Alone with the two adults Kurt turned his interest to his hands, wondering if the new warmth in his fingertips was just his imagination.

"I hope you don't mind, we thought it best if you just stick to some easy food for a while, Kurt," Carole explained with an honest face. "Hence the soup. I promise, I can cook more than just soup."

She smiled brightly, and again wasn't surprised or offended when she received no such sentiment in return.

"Carole's a wonderful cook," Burt agreed heartily, proud of managing to contribute to the conversation _and _compliment his wife in one. Whoever said men can't multitask?

His gaze flickered between his wife and the boy between them, to see Kurt's teeth worrying his lower lip.

"The soup was lovely, thank you."

It was less than a whisper, and his eyes never left his interlocked fingers, but Carole felt her heart stutter in her chest. The urge to reach over the table, to hug the boy, to thank the boy for the compliment, to thank the boy for speaking to her at all, almost entirely overpowered her.

"I'm glad you liked it, Kurt," she replied calmly, though Burt could detect the slight tremor of excitement in her voice. "Thank you."

"You must be tired," Burt said after a moment, scrutinising Kurt's exhausted face.

There was something about the twist of Kurt's lips that made Carole worry the boy wasn't all too keen about his thoughts and feelings being assumed and announced in such a way. She cut in with a smooth tenderness.

"Would you like to come to the living room with us? We were going to watch a film. Or if you like, you can just get some rest. It's your choice."

Kurt's eyes turned from man to woman, sparkling in dilemma.

"I…" he began, but his voice cracked. Swallowing once, twice, he tried again.

"I think I'll just go to bed."

They hadn't noticed the silence coming from the kitchen as Noah and Finn stopped their usual wrestle over the assignment of washing and drying. They hadn't noticed two figures watching with curious eyes.

"Dude!" Finn cried, and not only Kurt, but Burt and Carole, flinched in shock. "Your voice is like, so high!"

The silence lasted less than a moment, and then shattered. The chair was on the floor with a bang and the slight, slender figure of a boy hovering somewhere between Kurt and Porcelain was running, out and up and fast and desperate until the spare bedroom door had slammed hard behind him and a heavy guitar case was cradled in his trembling arms.

No matter how hard he gritted his teeth, the cries could not be stopped.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: As A God**

**Summary: 18 years ago, Burt Hummel's girlfriend disappeared. He spent months desperately searching, but eventually he had to accept Kathy was gone. He eventually finds happiness in Carole, Finn, and even Finn's best friend. But then he gets a call. A call from NYPD, telling him a 17 year old admitted to hospital for a drug overdose and carrying a picture of Burt and Kathy. Burt's son? There's only one way to find out.**

**Warnings: Right, this is a long one. Violence, substance abuse, sexual violence, prostitution (including underage), swearing, 'phobic slander, angsty goodness, self harm, suicidal thoughts (possibly acts)…yeah, this will be quite dark at times, at least, the themes will be.**

**WARNING: This chapter will contain vaguely explicit drug abuse.**

**As I struggle through some quite severe writer's block, I am continuing my trend of filler *flashback* chapters; sorry it's so short. It's a way to tell the world I don't care what the writers think, Klaine is forever for me, and I suppose a mean way of teasing you all with bits of Blaine. I love you and all your favourites, follows, and reviews. Thank you so very, very much. I'd love to know what people think of these flashbacks in particular, oh! And I wonder how many references you can find to musicals? ;)**

**-SallyStorm**

**Over and out.**

(chapter ten)

_To you, your father should be __**as a god**__;  
>One that compos'd your beauties, yea, and one<br>To whom you are but as a form in wax  
>By him imprinted, and within his power<br>To leave the figure or disfigure it._  
><em><strong>A Midsummer Night's Dream<strong>_** (1.1.50-4)**

_Raindrops_

_on roses and whiskers on_

_kittens._

_Bright copper kettles and_

_warm_

_woollen mittens._

_Brown paper_

_packages tied_

_up_

_with string._

_These are a few of my favourite…_

_Food and_

_water and clothes and_

_a_

_mattress and a_

_blanket._

_These are a few of my favourite things._

_Mother?_

_Bright copper kettles and_

_water._

_Mother?_

_"Wake up, Kurt."_

_The dog stings_

_and the_

_bee bites._

_Right?_

_"Wake up, my love"._

_You are my lucky star._

_I am by _

_far_

_the greatest star._

_"Beautiful, wake up."_

_Snowflakes that stay on_

_my nose and_

_eyelashes._

_Why won't they melt?_

_Just cold, cold, cold._

_"Shush now, it's ok. Wake up, love."_

_The stormy clouds are chasing, Mother._

_Mother?_

_"That's it, open your eyes. Just open them. That's all you have to do, beautiful."_

_Let those stormy clouds chase, Blaine._

_"Blaine?"_

_"Yes, love?"_

_It's so nice to have you back where you belong._

_"Blaine?"_

_"Tell me where it hurts, sweetheart."_

_"Will you kiss it better?"_

_Only can die once, right Mother?_

_"Of course I will. Just tell me."_

_Mama, can you hear me?_

**glee**

_Knock-knock-knock._

_"Porcelain?"_

_Knock-knock-knock._

_"Porcelain, you've got until seven minutes ago to get your ass out of that apartment."_

_Knock-knock-kno-_

_"What do you want?"_

_"Oh for Christ's…who the fuck are you?"_

_"My name's Blaine. I live here."_

_"Do you know who I am, Blaine?"_

_"Yes, I do."_

_"Good. Now, where is he?"_

_"He's not working tonight, Spike."_

_"Oh yeah? What, you taking his place?"_

_"No, I'm-"_

_"In that case, I don't give a crap. Now if you'll excuse me…"_

_"No, wait. Hey! Get out of - you get out of our apart-"_

_"Shit."_

_"You see? You understand now? He's not working tonight, Spike. Even if he _could_, he's not going to get you anything."_

_"Who did this?"_

_"Bunch of guys. He must've been walking home from giving you the money. I went looking for him when he wasn't back by dawn."_

_"And he has no idea?"_

_"He hasn't been fucking lucid enough for me to even _ask_."_

_"Don't get touchy, _Blaine_. You know, by all rights this apartment belongs to me. I could kick you and Porcelain out anytime I damn well want."_

_"…No, he has no idea who the guys were."_

_"That's better. Shit, what a mess .Where'd you get bandages from?"_

_"Couple of old shirts."_

_"What's this one-"_

_"Don't touch- be careful! It's ok, shush love…stop touching it, you're hurting him!"_

_"The one on his head'll need stitches. Probably concussed. I'll go get my bag."_

_"If you think I'm going to let you touch him, you're-"_

_"Listen, kid. That cut'll get infected real fast if you don't let me get my shit and do something about it. And get rid of the fucking possessive attitude. I own that sweet ass and I don't take kindly to people poaching on what's mine."_

_Crack._

_"I'm gonna give you a few seconds to apologise for that one, kid."_

_"You deserved it. I'm not gonna - what, what are you doing? What the fuck - stop! Stop it! You're hurting him. Stop - I'm sorry! I'm sorry, ok? Let go of him…sweetheart? Sh, I know. I'm sorry, it's ok. I'm here…I'm sorry, ok? Just - just please help him."_

_"Better. Stay here, wash out the cuts. This'll have to be quick. I've got money to make, kid. And Porcelain ain't doing me any good lying here feeling sorry for himself."_

_"Just hurry up. Please hurry up."_

**glee**

_Oom-Pah-Pah Oom-Pah-Pah_

_That's how_

_it goes._

_And everyone knows, don't they?_

_"Blaine?"_

_"I'm still here, love."_

_"You're always here."_

_"Do you want me to leave?"_

_"No. Never."_

_"Oh good, I'm glad."_

_As long as you need me, Blaine._

_Mother?_

_"What time-"_

_"Spike knows, love. He stitched up your head for you. Not a bad job, I guess."_

_(Some) How? (Some) Where?_

_"Maybe there's hmm…"_

_"It's ok, that's it. Ow, don't hurt yourself. There you go. Better?"_

_"Mhm."_

_"What were you saying?"_

_When I look at you the world just goes_

_away._

_"Maybe there's…hope for Spike yet."_

_"Mm, maybe. Look what he left for us…"_

_"Is it-"_

_"Yes."_

_"Didn't he-"_

_"A get well soon gift."_

_"Oh god. Yes. Please. Now."_

_"Wait, just wait. A little while? You might be concussed."_

_"Blaine it's been so fucking long. I need some. I need some now. Don't tell me you don't, either."_

_"I know. I know."_

_"I just need it so bad, Blaine."_

_"It's ok. Let me see if I can find-"_

_"Don't need one. Don't want one."_

_"It's better with a needle, you know?"_

_"Hate needles."_

_"Even for some of this?"_

_"Stop it. It'll help the pain anyway."_

_"It will."_

_"I just want to forget."_

_"Everything?"_

_"Except you."_

_"Me too."_

_"Are you ready?"_

_"Yes. God yes. Born ready for this."_

**glee**

_"Well you look better than the last time I saw you. How's your head?"_

_Spike's leaning against the wall, flicking a lit cigarette between his fingers and smirking at the approaching figure._

_"Like you care," Porcelain snaps._

_"Actually, I do. Can't have you passing out with someone's cock in your mouth, can we?"_

_"My head is fine, Spike. Thank you for the stitches."_

_"Pretty damn fine job, I'd say."_

_"Yeah, delicate as a surgeon's hand."_

_Porcelain flinches as a spray of ash is flicked in his face, the cigarette mid twirl between the second and third finger of Spike's left hand. He looks into those curious pale eyes that smile coldly at him through lank, greasy hair._

_"And your present?"_

_"Now _that_ I appreciated."_

_Spike's smirk twists deeper into his prematurely lined face. His yellow skin glows briefly, an ugly shade of orange as he takes a drag of his cigarette, the smoke wafting from his cracked lips deliberately into Porcelain's still bruised, though thankfully no longer swollen, face._

_"Thought you might need a pick me up. I'd send some guys after the bastards who did it if you'd give me any clue who they _were_."_

_"Spike, this is New-fucking-York. They were just a bunch of drunk-ass guys looking for someone to kick around. They could be on the other side of the city, the state, the damn _country_, or maybe living in the apartment block next to mine, and I wouldn't know the difference. Just let it go."_

_"I lost a lot of money without you for the past few days, Porcelain. How am I gonna make that back up, huh?"_

_Porcelain can only sigh and shrink and let a little more weight settle comfortably on his shoulders, like a cat digging its claws in, stinging, as it searches for the perfect spot._

_"I don't know, make me work extra?"_

_Spike, for some reason, pulls an expression of disgust. Porcelain can't help but feel a prick of rejection deflate his ego a little._

_"Four days ago I stitched your fucking head back together, Porcelain. I am _not _sending you out into that mob yet. You're on floor one tonight in the house. I don't want you on the streets by yourself until I tell you otherwise. You hear me?"_

_If Porcelain wasn't painfully aware of how very much Spike cared about _money loss _and _property damage_, he'd suspect Spike almost cared about his _safety_._

_"Ok. Ok, um, thanks, Spike."_

_"Get inside," Spike grunts._

_And that's the end of it._

**glee**

_Blaine?_

_Yes, beautiful?_

_I love you._

_I love you._

_Do you?_

_Of course. I'll always love you._

_No matter what?_

_No matter what._


End file.
